


Ruthless

by ItsMe_Basil



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, BAMF Chris Argent, Chris and Peter Own a Night Club, EXTREMELY SLOW UPDATES, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Established Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Gang Violence, M/M, Mafia AU, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, more tags to come, stiles has a dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsMe_Basil/pseuds/ItsMe_Basil
Summary: Stiles yelps and shakes his hand. The ash stays where it is. Well, no, it moves across his palm! Stiles wipes at it with his other hand, forgoing the whole getting-it-in-the-bottle thing and sticking to the get-it-off-me thing.Only the ash doesnt get off. Stiles watches with growing horror as the ash moved up his palm to his wrist, and the burning gets worse."Ow," he breathes, wincing and staring. The ash moves on its own, growing a shape at the inside of his wrist. Three spirals, one on top and two on the bottom."What the fuck, what the fuck, ow!"
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Chris Argent/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 63
Kudos: 577





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies!! Please comment any tags you'd like me to add!!! I don't think I got them all. Also, this book isn't going to be updated very regularly because I'm making the chapters so long. Please let me know what you think, thanks for reading!!

Peter Hale was the most revered and respected man in all of Northern California. In charge of one of the biggest 'wolf packs West of Colorado, he was widely known. 

And widely feared. For with a reputation as big as Peter Hale's, you make plenty of enemies. Not only was Peter Hale the alpha of the Hale pack -or mob, as many residents called it- he also had his hands in a lot of shady business. 

From money laundering to murder to the distribution of drugs, Peter Hale was in on it. Running the show from behind the curtains. 

The FBI couldn't touch him, the police were afraid of him. Everyone knew if you owed him money, it was pay up or die - and Peter was incredibly talented at making it look like an accident. 

You hurt one Hale, you hurt the whole pack. People learned that quick when a smaller rival gang took out a hit on Peter Hale's nephew. 

The hitman, and the entire gang disappeared. No one knew for sure what happened, but people talked, rumors spread. 

Peter was never seen in public without a handful of men dressed in black, armed to the teeth and trigger happy. 

One of them, Chris Argent, was Peter Hale's favorite. The pack knew him as Peter's mate -his plaything. Outsiders believed Peter Hale kept Chris Argent so close to keep the Argent family in check. 

The Argents were widely known too, as hunters. The head of thr family, Gerard Argent, did not hide his disgust of Peter and his pack, and had made it public knowledge that any Hale left unattended would suffer. 

Peter Hale was a cruel 'wolf to all but his pack. It wasn't hard to catch the oldest Argent son's eye, to seduce him and turn him against the Argent family. 

It had been fifteen years, and most people assumed Chris would return to the Argents, or die mysteriously a long time ago. 

But Chris was loyal to Peter, and Peter kept him well taken care of. 

No one fucked with the Hale pack. They were feared, respected, and if you did right by them, they did right by you. 

*-*

Stiles cursed, hands fumbling to keep the two boxes upright as he walked down the street to his apartment. 

His dad would flip his lid if he ever found out Stiles' new apartment was on the wrong side of the proverbial tracks, but it was all Stiles could afford. 

He used the wall to hold the boxes, pressing up against them with his hips as he dug into his front pocket for the keys to the front door. 

"Fuck, no, no, no!" Stiles grunted, dropping the key in order to save the top box as it slid. "Oh, come on!" 

He looked down at the key by his foot, then at the boxes and heaved a heavy sigh. His fault for not accepting Scott's help moving in. 

"Oh, here, let me."

Stiles snapped his head up, just as a guy around his age dipped down to pick up his key. 

"Thanks," Stiles grinned, snatching the key from his outstretched hand and unlocking the door. 

"Want any help?"

"Oh, no, I got it," Stiles waved off, grabbing the boxes again from the wall and stepping backwards into the apartment. "I'm Stiles."

"Theo," the guy grinned. Stiles dumped the boxes on the floor, huffing before stepping back out of the apartment. "I'm your upstairs neighbor."

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah," Theo grinned. Stiles thought his teeth were a little too perfect. His hair too. "Well, I'm heading for work. It's nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too."

"Oh," Theo back tracked. "Just a warning, I'd keep your door locked. There's been quite a few break ins."

"Great." 

Theo took off towards a beat up blue Silverado. By the loud chugging, Stiles could tell it was diesel and he scrunched his nose at the smell of exhaust as he drove off. 

Stiles turned his attention to the baby blue jeep, sighing a bit when he saw Frankie in the drivers seat, panting as he looked at Stiles with impatience. 

"Hold on, Frank!" Stiles called, jogging back to the car. "I know, you're bored, just a couple more boxes and then I'll take you on a walk, hmm?"

Frankie just chuffed, following Stiles with his eyes as Stiles moved to the back of the jeep to get two more boxes. 

He didnt have much in terms of furniture -he didnt have any. He left his home in Independence with six boxes filled with clothes, books, bedding -sans bed- dishes and a sauce pan, and his shower supplies. A suitcase carried all his miscellaneous and important items. 

He took two more boxes into the apartment, dropped them off, and repeated until the truck was free again. 

He grabbed the plastic bag with Frankie's toys and food and water dishes, and then leashed up the very impatient dog. Stiles laughed as Frankie pulled Stiles to the open apartment door, ready to get to know his new home. 

Stiles still wasn't sure how he managed to get the apartment -he had made sure to mention his dog was heavier than Stiles himself- but he did. Frankie was a mastiff. His head was bigger than Stiles', but he was a gentle giant. Terrified of the vaccum. 

It might have something to do with the number of vacancies and the fact that -according to Theo- there had been numerous break ins. 

Stiles wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth though. He had promised Frankie would be quiet, and the key was mailed to him a week before he was to drive up. 

Stiles shut the door behind him, making sure to twist the dead bolt and watched as Frankie thumped across the fake wood floor, moving from the living room to the small kitchen, then back to the bed and bath. 

It wasn't much, and it was on thr ground floor, but for Stiles and Frankie it was fine. 

Stiles would be starting school in the fall, and he wanted to be close. Having a full ride scholarship to the school of his choice, it wasn't hard for him to give on a few things. 

"Alright," Stiles huffed, clapping his hands together before making his way to the box labeled BEDROOM.

He carried it to the only bedroom there was, setting it on the floor before opening it and pulling out the bedding and the extra sheets. He'd have to sleep on the floor until he got a mattress, which he hoped to get as soon as he got his first paycheck. 

He set up a makeshift bed of blankets, plugging in a bedside lamp that surprisingly was still in tact before grabbing Frankie's leash and harness. 

After fighting Frankie to get the harness on, the two were off to get acquainted with the neighborhood. Stiles made sure to bring a thicker flannel and his beanie, burying his hands into his jeans pockets as they walked through town. 

Beacon Hills wasn't terribly big. There was the rural area across the river that had elementary, middle, high school and college, a tattoo parlor, an animal clinic and had most of thr housing. Stiles lived in the downtown area, which had the hospital and sheriff's station, bowling alley and a surprising amount of nightclubs for the size of the city. 

Beyond that was the warehouse district. Stiles' apartment was smack dab in between. 

Stiles was just passing a nightclub called Sinema when Frankie began pulling on the leash. 

"Hey, stop that," Stiles scolded, having to pick up his pace to keep from landing on his face. Frankie wasn't a puller -the dog could walk beside Stiles without a leash and wouldnt run off. 

Stiles dug his heels in, cursing as Frankie yanked him down the sidewalk. "Frankie, stop! Stop it!"

He yanked, Frankie yanked back and the leash slipped through his fingers. "Fucking hell. Frankie!"

Stiles took off into a sprint after the dog, shouting his name and threatening him with a time out, but nothing stopped the dog. 

Stiles' eyes widened when he saw what Frankie was after -a man dressed in a suit stepping out of one of the many buildings in down town. 

"Frankie no!" He cried, struggling to catch up to the massive excuse of a dog. "Hey, watch out!"

The yelling caught the attention of the mann, who turned just in time for Frankie to barrel between his legs, nearly knocking him over. 

Frankie was jumping and wagging his tail, the darker haired man grabbed Frankie's leash, trying to keep Frankie away with a scowl. 

Stiles ran up to him, panting as he took the leash. "I'm... so sorry... he's.... usually... not this bad," he managed. 

He took a couple steps from the man, pulling Frankie back. Frankie jumped forward, nearly pulling Stiles off his feet. 

"Get a better handle on your dog," the dark haired man snarled. 

"Sorry," Stiles repeated. "He's very well behaved, I promise. We just moved here, I think he just got too excited."

"Maybe you should get a dog that doesn't weigh more than you do." 

"Only by ten pounds," Stiles huffed. He cleared his throat, chewing on his lip. "I'm Stiles, by the way. And this is Frankie." 

The dark haired man just scowled at him, making Stiles shift from side to side. 

"Anyway, sorry, again. I gotta go." Stiles spun around and took off down the sidewalk before the guy could cuss him out of threaten him with the drycleaning bill. 

He pulled Frankie back the way they'd come, reprimanding the beast the entire way back to the apartment. 

"That's enough exploring for you," Stiles huffed, unlocking his door and letting Frankie run in. "You're grounded."

*-*

The next day, Stiles woke up to a sore back. After getting dressed and taking Frankie on a walk around the complex, he got into the jeep and headed for his job. 

He was working at a pet boarding and grooming facility. He'd applied there first when he decided on the college, and they'd hired him on the spot when Stiles mentioned he was in school to become a veterinarian. 

He'd taken a couple courses on animal behavior and psychology, as well as worked at the clinic in Independence for all of high school. 

"You must be Stiles!" A woman greets when Stiles steps into the building. It's a squat one story building, tan bricks and windows every ten feet. 

The inside looks more like a shelter than a doggie bed and breakfast. Theres a reception desk in the lobby, with a door leading to the rest of the building. 

"Yeah," Stiles smiled, shaking her hand. She was tall -not taller than Stiles, but not as short as Stiles' girl friends in Independence- with dark hair pinned up out of her face and bright brown eyes. 

"I'm Laura," she introduced. "You're going to be my shadow this week." Stiles grins at her, and the day starts. 

She shows him how to clock in, and gives him a tour of the building. During the tour she explains his duties from keeping the freezer stocked of peanutbutter kongs, and to be careful about the dogs with allergies. 

"Allergy dogs get these," she says, holding up a ziplock bag of what looks like frozen yogurt in the shape of dog bones. 

The tour continues into the back, where it opens up to a training room with an agility course and an open mat for obedience classes. 

"The dogs can play here when we arent teaching any classes, and there's also about forty acres in the back for walks."

Stiles nods along. 

"We also have a fenced in area, which I'll show you when we get outside."

Laura leads him to the kennels. They're a lot nicer than the ones at the clinic in Independence, and cleaner than shelter kennels. 

Each kennel is blocked off from the other so the animals have their own privacy, the doors blocked with a sheet of heavy duty plastic so they cant see the dogs across the way. 

"Usually theres no barking, unless we get an excitable one," Laura explains. "We keep special dogs seperate from the rest. If they're in tact we keep them away from each other, and we make sure any agressive dogs have their own time outside."

"Smart," Stiles agrees, and then Laura is taking them outside through the back door. There are four large fenced in areas, and Laura points to each one, labeling them as large, medium and small dog runs, and the last one for the special dogs. 

The two of them are making rounds feeding the dogs when a bell above the door in the lobby chimes. 

"I'll be right back," Laura grins. "Remember to check the charts for food allergies!"

Stiles waves her off as she jogs to the front of the building. He finished the last two dogs in his row before heading for the food room to grab another bag. 

He was dragging a fifty pound bag of chow across the floor to the other row of kennels when he looked up to see Laura walking in with the man from yesterday. The one in the suit. The one Frankie ran after. 

"You," the man growled. Fuck. A werewolf? Stiles dropped the bag, eyes widening. 

"Uh-"

"What's he doing here?" The dark haired man demanded, looking to Laura while he pointed a finger at Stiles. 

Laura scowled at him and rolled her eyes. "He works here, Derek." She huffed. 

"How long?"

"This is my first day," Stiles inputted, taking another step back when the guy snapped his head to Stiles' direction. His eyes narrowed. 

"Alright," Laura snapped, stepping in front of Derek. "No harassing employees. You need to leave and chill."

Stiles held his breath. Was he really that mad about Frankie? Derek looked from Laura to Stiles, back to Laura and then turned on his heels and stormed out of the kennel room. 

The door slammed so hard the walls rattled and a few of the dogs started barking. 

"Hush!" Laura snapped and the dogs stopped. Stiles blinked. Another werewolf. 

"Im sorry," Stiles said. Laura looked at him with a frown. 

"Why are you sorry?"

"Well, yesterday I ran into him," Stiles mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, actually, Frankie ran into him, and I think he's mad at me."

"He's mad at everyone," Laura said with a roll of her eyes. "He thinks everyone is out to get him, I'm sure he wasnt expecting to see you again."

Stiles nodded. It made sense. He just wasnt used to werewolves. He'd only met a couple, and they were all fairly new -Scott, Issac, Boyd and Erica. They weren't prone to violence like Derek seemed to be. 

"Who's Frankie?"

"Oh," Stiles blinked, brought back to the present. "He's my English Mastiff."

Laura's eyes brightened as her lips pulled into a grin. "Ooh, tell me all about him!"

Stiles couldnt help but grin. No one was ever really interested in Frankie. His dad had let him get a dog when Stiles said he was moving out for college, though he wasnt expecting a dog as big as Frankie. 

"I have pictures," Stiles said, digging into the pocket of his jeans to pull out his phone. Laura bounced on her heels as Stiles opened up the folder full of pictures of Frankie. 

"I adopted him from a rescue almost a year ago," Stiles said, bringing up the most recent picture. 

It was during the drive from Independence to Beacon Hills. Frankie was sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep, mouth open, tongue out with a sunset behind him. 

"Oh my goodness, what a cutie pie!" Laura gasped, snatching the phone from Stiles to look closer. "How old is he?"

"We think he's three," Stiles guessed. "Luckily, his history was pretty well documented, so we have a pretty good idea."

"You should bring him by!" Laura handed the phone back. Stiles took one last look at it before shutting the phone off and sticking it into his back pocket. 

"Really?" Stiles asked, shocked. Not many businesses allowed family pets to come to work. Stiles knew Frankie was good with other dogs -with everything actually- and wouldnt be a problem, but he was still shocked. 

"Of course!" Laura grinned. The two got back to feeding the dogs. "He's comfortable with 'wolves, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Stiles nodded. "I had a pack back home, Frankie loved them."

"Then its settled," Laura clapped, earning an excited puppy wiggle from the old lab in the kennel in front of them. Stiles smiled, ducking his head to get back to work. 

At the end of the day, Laura had him clock out and Stiles made his way to the grocery store. He had no groceries. He had no furniture either, but he could only afford the groceries until he got paid. 

He spent an hour and a half walking down the isles of the chain grocery store, familiarizing himself with everything and picking items up if he needed them. 

He spent another hour doing the actual shopping, walking back through the isles he wanted. He got a shower curtain while he was out, a clear plastic thing for only five bucks. He'd buy a new one when he bought a bed. 

Once his cart was full, he checked out, loaded everything into the car and headed for his apartment. 

Frankie needed a walk, and Stiles was thankful he hadn't peed on the carpet. 

He made quick work of putting away the groceries that needed to be kept cold, then harnessed the dog and stepped out of the apartment. 

Frankie wasted no time finding a spot to go, and Stiles winced. Poor dog. Held it all day. When he finished doing his business, Stiles grumbled as he picked it up and threw it in the trash. 

"I'm gonna teach you how to shit in the toilet," Stiles said, eyeing Frankie. They headed back to the apartment, Stiles getting Frankie's gear off before making them both dinner. 

"You're coming to work with me tomorrow, so you have to behave," Stiles said, eyeing Frankie who was chowing down on his kibble. 

"Which means no more running into mean werewolves in nice suits and getting me into trouble."

Stiles added the boiling water to the styrofoam cup of instant noodles, setting the hot pan back on the burner and setting his fork on top of the paper topper to keep the hot in the cup. 

He walked to the pile of boxes he hadn't unpacked yet, kneeling down in front of the opened suitcase and pulling out his laptop and charger. 

Frankie made sure to nudge under his arm and chuff in his face while he was doing so, which resulted in Stiles nearly falling back onto his ass. 

He straightened, bringing the laptop to his empty bedroom and setting up on his bed of blankets. 

If his dad saw him now, in an unfurnished apartment with instant noodles cooking on his counter, he'd drag Stiles back to Independence by his ear. 

He went back to thr kitchen to grab the styrofoam cup, checking the noodles. They were mostly cooked, but not all the way. Stiles shrugged to himself, taking the cup back to the bedroom. 

Frankie settled down against his thigh as Stiles pulled up Netflix. Pulling up Lucifer, he shoved the cup of instant noodles under his chin, slurping with each bite. 

He was halfway through the second episode of the night when Frankie's head jerked up, body tensing. Stiles instantly paused the video to listen. 

Frankie growled, and Stiles could see someone outside his window, moving along the side of the complex building in a way that only meant one thing. Whoever it was was sneaking. 

Stiles quietly got to his feet, grabbing the aluminum bat at the door and made his way to the living room to check and make sure he'd lock the door. 

Frankie followed, alert and ready to defend. Stiles felt comforted by his presence. He was used to having a 'wolf at his back, but Frankie would do. 

He held his breath when he heard the jiggle of his door handle. 

Frankie barked, loud and roarous and threatening. He charged past Stiles, who stood with the bat over his shoulder, clad in an old tshirt and boxers, ready to swing. 

Frankie continued his onslaught of raging barks and warning growls, heckles raised and spit flying. Stiles wondered if he should be more worried about Frankie knocking the door down or the stranger. 

"Frankie, shh," Stiles whispered. Frankie stopped barking, but the growling persisted. Stiles let the bat drop to his side and he stepped up to Frankie, settling a hand on his shoulder blades. 

There was no noise behind the door, and after a few more minutes, Frankie stopped growling and walked away to flop down on the makeshift bed in the other room. 

Stiles took a deep breath, making sure the deadbolt was locked, and throwing the chain on for peace of mind before he went back to his room, setting his bat down at the door and falling into the bed. 

The laptop had gone dark, and Stiles didn't bother finishing the episode. Instead, he curled under the top blanket, grunting when Frankie inserted himself against Stiles' side and huffed a sleepy sigh. 

Stiles curled into the dog, arm looped lazily over his back. He fell asleep relatively fast. Whoever it was had been scared off, and had hopefully decided Stiles' apartment wasnt worth the risk. 

His dad had hated Frankie when Stiles got him. Called him a miniature pony who ate too much. Stiles wanted to call and say 'I told you so', but he didnt. That would open up an old argument he wasn't too eager to have. 

*-*

The next day at work went a lot smoother than Stiles had expected. Laura loved Frankie, and Frankie didnt make any trouble with the other dogs, or the cats -which was surprising. 

Frankie followed Stiles everywhere, helping with feeding and even going on walks with some of the dogs. When Stiles was filling kongs with peanutbutter, Frankie was laying at his feet, licking the empty jars clean when Stiles ran out. 

And Derek didnt show up again either. Today he was working with a girl named Chloe. She was a short blonde with bright blue eyes. Stiles liked her alright. 

Stiles clocked out with Frankie on his heels, the two of them tired from the long work day. Frankie had to be leashed -even though he was perfectly fine without. 

He was just shutting the passenger door for Frankie when he spun around and yelped, jumping. 

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to startle you, sweetie."

Stiles blinked, grinning as he shook off his jumping heartbeat. "Oh, no, sorry, I startle surprisingly easily."

The woman smiled, showing all teeth. She was older than Stiles by at least ten years, but she looked beautiful with wavy blonde hair and a sharp jaw. 

Stiles scowled when he heard Frankie growl, and he turned his head to give him a look. 

"Nice dog," the woman commented, still smiling. Smirking maybe. She was very confident. Too confident. It made Stiles feel uncomfortable. Which was extremely sexist, he chastised himself. Women could be confident it didnt have to emasculate him. 

"Yeah, he's usually a lot nicer," Stiles said, throwing another look to Frankie, who continued to growl at the window, showing teeth. 

"I'm not much of a dog person," the woman shrugged. "He must sense it."

"Maybe," Stiles placated. 

"I was wondering if you could help me out," the woman said, shifting her weight to get a little closer to Stiles. Stiles pretended not to notice. 

"Im looking for an old friend, Derek Hale? Have you seen him?"

Stiles was familiar with both names. Derek was the grumpy werewolf Frankie almost knocked over. Hale, was a name that made Stiles a bit uneasy. 

Stiles was the son of a cop, he picked up a few things. And one of those things were the Hales. A pack of werewolves who seemed very violent towards outsiders; especially the Argents -a hunter family. 

"Uh," Stiles stammered. Was the Derek he ran into a Hale? God, he hoped not. The woman lifted an eyebrow, lips quirked. "I just moved here, so I'm not very familiar with the town yet."

"But you've seen him," the woman said, stepping even closer. It wasn't a question. Stiles took a small step back, his back hit the door to his jeep. 

Stiles frowned. She knew Stiles had seen him, which either meant this woman was stalking Derek, or was stalking Stiles, and since Stiles had only been living here for less than a week, he figured he wasn't the target. 

Which meant Derek was. Which also made it very likely that the woman standing in front of him now was an Argent. And he wasnt about to get in the middle of this centuries long feud. 

"I just want to reconnect," the woman said. She lifted an arm and Stiles forced himself not to flinch. She set it on the car next to Stiles' head. 

"Uh, maybe try the yellow pages?" Stiles suggested. Frankie was getting agitated in the car behind him, his growling turning into snarling barks. 

The woman chuckled, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Quit with the games, kid," she snapped, face dropping from the friendly mask into a bored look, her face hardening as she boxed him in. 

Stiles dropped his facade too, glaring up at the woman. She was two inches taller than him, and it might be the heels she wore. 

"I have stuff to do," Stiles said, grabbing the handle of the jeep door. Maybe he could scare her off if he threatened to let Frankie out. "I'm sorry I couldnt help."

The woman's eyes moved to his hand, then behind him to Frankie, who was gearing up for the door to swing open, and stepped back. 

She put on that brilliant smile again, taking her arm back before nodding once. "Sure thing, sweetie."

Stiles stayed where he was as the woman stepped back again. "I didnt catch your name."

Stiles scowled at her again. "No, you didnt," he snapped. Her smirk grew, showing off teeth again. 

"I'll be seeing you around, then," she said. Stiles took it like the threat it was, and watched her turn on her heels and strut off towards a dark SUV. 

Stiles didnt move until the vehicle disappeared around a bend, and he sagged a little, scurrying around the jeep and jumping inside. 

He drove home with a scowl that only deepened when he saw someone tailing him in a blue pontiac. 

Stiles turned right, and so did the pontiac. He turned left, and the pontiac followed. Stiles' frown deepened. He left his bat at home. 

He kept to the busy roads. He was a cop's son, he knew the game. He wasnt going to try and lose whoever was tailing him, because in the end, a back road was gonna be the place where this person got bold and rear ended him. 

So Stiles kept to the speed limit, took his normal route home, and parked in his normal spot. He opened the door, ran around the hood and grabbed Frankie's leash. 

He locked the jeep, making sure not to look around for the pontiac, and stood in the yard just long enough for Frankie to pee before ushering them both inside and locking the door behind him. 

He stood by the window facing the parking lot, peeking out to see the pontiac had stopped at the entrance to the building parking lot. 

Stiles watched him sit there for a good five minutes before he drove off, and Stiles huffed, letting his body relax. 

He had to get curtains, he thought. And maybe something more than a bat. This wasnt Independence. Beacon Hills was so much bigger, and so much worse than Independence had been. 

Independence was a tiny town -village would be a better name- of under seven hundred people. Stiles could ride his bike from one end of the village limit to the other. Everyone knew everyone there. 

The worst thing to happen in Independence was the occasional store robbery, or drunk and disorderly conduct. 

In the three days Stiles had been in Beacon Hills, he'd aparently ran into what was basically a gang war between two of the biggest families in California. 

Stiles didnt even know the Hales ran out of Bescon Hills. He assumed they'd be in bigger cities like Los Angelese or something. 

Stiles dropped down on his makeshift bed, powering his laptop on. He spent the rest of his evening researching everything he could on the Hales and the Argents. 

Stiles never needed to know much about them, being from such an insignificant little town, the feuds of big families never worried him. 

He wondered if his dad knew about it. It took a quick Google of the last names to bring up thousands of news articles and police records. Stiles started with the first link, and worked his way down, reading how the Hale pack had grown from a small family to a werewolf empire. How Talia Hale had died in a fire that took out quite a few other people. 

The next alpha was Peter Hale. Stiles continued to read how this man had turned that empire into a mob of sorts. Police could never stick him with any charges, but it was believed the new alpha had his hands in everything from bribery to drug distribution to murder. 

Peter Hale, as it turned out, was untouchable, and it didnt seem like he cared if one of his pack mates took the fall. None of the pack ever snitched if they were brought in. Some even took the blame themselves. 

Stiles huffed indignantly, clicking on more links. The Argents were probably just as violent. They were hunters -a barbaric profession that shouldve died out a long time ago- who's main focus was on the Hales. 

It was thought the Argents had been the ones to set the fire that killed the alpha before Peter, and Stiles knew that grudge would probably never be resolved. 

Stiles couldnt help but feel like he'd just stepped into a modern Hatfield and McCoy tv show drama. 

"Okay," Stiles said to Frankie, shutting the computer down. It was almost three in the morning and his eyes were starting to ache. "No getting involved, got it?"

Frankie looked up, licking his lips before yawning. "Don't go running for any more Hales, and I'll steer clear of any Argents."

He settled under the blanket. "Maybe we can skate past this feud and focus on school. It's just four years and then we can move back in with dad for a little bit."

Frankie chuffed, laying his head on Stiles' hip. Stiles ran a hand over his tan fur, scratching behind his ears. 

*-*

The vow of ignorance didnt last very long. It had taken a week of nothing before something happened, and Stiles hadn't been prepared. 

He was walking to his jeep with two hands full of grocery bags when he noticed the familiar blue pontiac. He scowled at it as he put his groceries in the passenger seat, looked around the parking lot for the owner of the car, and frowned a little deeper when the owner seemed to be the woman carrying a child in one arm and three bags of groceries in the other. 

She was on the phone, the small device pressed between ear and shoulder, and she opened the pontiac with ease, setting the groceries down before putting the kid in a carseat. 

Maybe it was a different pontiac. Or maybe Stiles was just paranoid. It was probably just paranoia. 

Stiles shut the car door and jogged around the hood to get to the drivers seat. 

He took one more look around, and his breath hitched in his throat when his eyes landed on Derek. 

He wasn't in a suit, but he wasn't dressed down either. He was wearing dark jeans and a white button up shirt. It was tucked in, and the sleeves were rolled up just below the elbow. Stiles' eyes widened a little. 

Just paranoia. 

Stiles jumped into the jeep and started the engine. He looked back up, but Derek was gone. Stiles reversed out of the parking lot and gunned it towards home. 

Maybe he should call his dad. Or the police. Or he could move into a nicer neighborhood. But he didnt have the money for that. He couldnt even afford a mattress! 

When he got home, he snagged his groceries and ran to his front door, slamming it shut behind him and twisting the deadbolt shut. He locked the door knob and pulled the chain across before rushing to the bathroom. 

There was only two windows in the apartment. One in his bedroom and one in the living room. Stiles grabbed two towels and moved to the boxes he had yet to unpack. Frankie followed him closely, confused and picking up on Stiles' fearful rushing. 

He found the hammer and nails and moved to the window. He nailed the towel into the windowsill above the window, covering it. When he was finished, he moved to the one in his bedroom. 

Frankie followed close behind. Stiles didnt take a full breath until the windows were covered. Maybe he was being too paranoid. 

This was his first time living on his own, he was living in a city forty times bigger than his hometown. It was normal, he told himself. 

Completely normal to freak out. Stiles ended up calling his dad.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Hey," Stiles grinned. "How's it going? You miss me yet?"

"Miss you?" Noah asked, making Stiles grin widen. "God no, I finally get a quiet house and can do my own grocery shopping."

"Don't go falling off the wagon, dad," Stiles reprimanded as he made his second cup of instant noodles that day. "Someone's gotta be a grandpa to Frankie, and you're the only dad that fits the bill."

Noah laughed through the receiver. Stiles felt better just having his dads voice in his ear, his tightly wound nerves relaxing. 

"Any chance at human grandkids?"

"Nah," Stiles grinned. "They'd probably turn out just like me, and then you'd have two of us breaking and entering and pilfering through your personal life."

"That's terrifying."

Stiles laughed, dropping onto his blankets with his cup of noodles. Frankie drops down beside him. 

"How how are you doing, kiddo?" Noah asked, his tone changing. Stiles' smile instantly dropped and he let out a long sigh. 

"Its not how I expected it to be," he confessed. "Its bigger here, and definitely scarier than Independence."

"You know you can always come back home, right?"

"Yeah I know," Stiles huffed. Theres a couple seconds of silence on both ends before Stiles speaks again. "Frankie's keeping me company though."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah," Stiles pulls out another grin. "I can bring him to work, and he chases away the shadows lurking outside my bedroom window."

"I guess if he's keeping you safe, I can sort of like him," Noah huffed, sounding put upon. Stiles just grinned, scritching at Frankie's ear. 

"So when do I get to come visit?"

"When I get a couch," Stiles laughed, looking around his empty apartment. "I've barely unpacked."

"Well, don't leave me waiting," Noah chastised. "I want to see where your living."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Its an apartment, dad. Its not gonna be very home-y."

"Still," Noah huffed. "I'd feel better if I checked it out, maybe change the screws in your doorframe and set up a security system over the windows."

"I only have two windows," Stiles laughed. "And the screws in the door jam are perfectly fine."

"You know it only takes five pounds of pressure to break a door down," Noah reminded. 

"Yes, and only a rock to break a window," Stiles rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine. I've got Frankie, and my bat, and I have nine-one-one memorized."

"Good," Noah said. "You call when you get into trouble."

"I would never get into trouble," Stiles scoffed. Well, he might possibly have already gotten into trouble. 

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Noah exclaimed. "I wasn't born yesterday, son."

"I'll try my hardest," Stiles rectified. 

"No you wont."

"I'll try?"

"I'll believe that when I see it," Noah countered. Stiles huffed a laugh that sounded more like a quick puff of air through his nose. 

"Good night, dad," he smiled. "Love you."

"Good night, kiddo. Love you too."

Stiles hung up the phone. His noodles had gone cold and he sighed, getting to his feet to discard his dinner. 

He was just dumping the cold noodles into the trash when a loud banging cut through the air. Stiles jumped and swore. Whoever was trying to break in was trying to give him a heart attack. 

Frankie jumped out of the bedroom, barking and snarling and growling, but the banging continued, and Stiles' eyes widened when it changed to a heavier thudding. 

Someone was ramming their shoulder into the door. 

"Frankie, come!" Stiles snapped, grabbing at Frankie's collar and yanking him from the door. He ran for the bedroom with the dog, snatching up the bat and shutting Frankie inside. 

"Get the fuck out of here!" Stiles yelled over the thudding. He could see the wood around the doorframe splintering. "I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it!"

The thudding stopped, Stiles inched towards the door with his bat held high. It was quiet. Too quiet. 

Stiles was just about to open the door when a frantic knocking made him jump, nearly dropping his bat. 

"Hey! It's your neighbor, Theo!" 

Stiles sagged in relief, quickly unlocking the door and swinging it open. 

"Are you okay?" Theo asked, eyes wide. "I heard what happened from upstairs."

"I-I'm okay," Stiles nodded, dropping the bat to his side, shoulders sagging. His hands were shaking. 

"Are you sure?" Theo asked. "Do you need me to call anybody?"

"Uh, no I'm alright," Stiles shook his head. "Thanks for checking up on me."

Theo smiled. "No problem. I know what it's like moving somewhere new. Plus you picked a really bad neighborhood."

Stiles couldnt help but chuckle a little, rubbing his forehead. "Here," Theo continued, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper. "Here's my number, if you need it."

Stiles reached for it, forcing his hand to stop shaking. "Thanks."

"Call whenever you want. I work the night shift but I'm usually home until midnight."

"Okay, thank you," Stiles nodded. Theo nodded back, grinning a little before stepping from Stiles' door, heading for the parking lot. 

Stiles glanced at the door frame before shutting and locking it. Whoever had tried to break in had broken the door frame. He'd have to get it fixed. 

Stiles staggered over to his bedroom, dropping into his bedding. Frankie laid down beside him, checking him over. 

He didn't get much sleep that night, and woke up with bags under his eyes. He took Frankie to work with him, worried with the doorframe broken that Frankie would get out. 

"Wow, you look like shit," Laura chuckled. Frankie ambled alongside Stiles, tail wagging. At least he got sleep. 

"Someone tried to break into my apartment," Stiles mumbled, clocking in. "Kind of freaked me out."

"Jeez, I'm sorry," Laura said. Stiles shook it off with a yawn. 

"No worries," Stiles said. "I dont have anything to steal, and Frankie scared him off."

"Well, what a good boy." Frankie boofed his agreement as Laura dropped down to scratch at his face. 

"Why don't you take an easy day today," Laura said, standing up again. "You could get your companionship hours in."

"Works for me," Stiles said. He thought he might pass out on the trail if he had to walk all the dogs. 

Frankie followed him to the large playroom. He made himself comfortable on one of the raised dog beds and Stiles went to thr kennels to get a couple of the dogs out for some play time. 

The day was longer than Stiles expected, and by the time he clocked out, he was nearly asleep on his feet. 

"Try to get some rest, Stiles," Laura called out as Stiles made it to the door. 

"Will do," Stiles called back, waving off. Frankie was at his heels. 

They made it home. It was too early to go to bed, but that was all Stiles wanted to do. 

He was just about to let Frankie out of the jeep when his eyes caught his front door. It was open. 

Stiles went to the back of the jeep, lifting the hatch and grabbing for the wood bat he kept back there. He didnt play baseball, but he'd run into a few rogue supernaturals, and Stiles found a swing to the head for anyone was kind of hard to spring back from. 

He stalked towards the door, bat at his side. He made it to the apartment and paused, listening. Someone was going through his stuff. 

Stiles walked into the house, raising the bat up. "Hey!"

The man lifted his head from the box he had his hand in, and Stiles swung. He grunted, missing the guy when he ducked. 

He was tall, athletically built and had a dark blonde beard cut short and graying near the chin, and dark blonde hair to match. He moved with the fluidity of a martial artist from one of his dad's favorite movies. 

He straightened and came for Stiles. Stiles' eyes widened and he swung again, this time hitting the guy in the arm. 

He grunted and Stiles took off towards the kitchen. He had dishes, he could throw them, maybe make enough noise to get Theo's attention. 

The man was faster. He gripped Stiles by the scruff of his shirt, yanking hard enough to choke Stiles and force him off balance. 

They both tumbled to the floor, Stiles yelping when he landed face first with the guy on top of him. "No! Let me go!"

The man grunted, trying to grab at Stiles' flailing arms. Stiles managed to pull his arm back enough to elbow him in the nose. The guy staggered and Stiles wriggled out from under him, turning onto his back and scurrying across the carpet. 

The man yanked a gun out of his waistband and aimed it at Stiles. "Don't move," he growled, ice blue eyes set in a hard determination. His nose was bleeding into the blonde hairs of his mustache. 

Stiles froze, hand gripped tightly around the handle of the bat. "Shit."

The man took a step forward, so Stiles swung the bat, knocking the gun out of his hand and possibly breaking a finger or two of the guy's loud exclamation was anything to go by. 

Get the gun. Get the upper hand. Stiles stood up while the guy was still clutching his hand. He dove across the room, landing on the gun and stood back up. 

"Get the fuck out of my apartment," Stiles snapped, holding the gun in his shaky hands at the intruder. 

The man glared at Stiles, jaw clicking as he straightened. Stiles tried to steady his hands. He knew how to fire a gun. Knew how to load it, how to aim and reload and empty a chamber. 

His dad was the sheriff after all, Stiles had to learn. Noah had taken him out to the range once he was fifteen and taught him all about gun safety. 

Stiles was a natural at shooting thr targets. But now there was an actual person at the end of the barrel, and he could help but hear his dad's voice in the back of his head. 

'Remember, son, never point a gun at anyone, unless your planning on shooting them. This isnt a toy, understand?'

"Who are you?" The man demanded, eyeing Stiles like he was nothing more than a kid with a toy gun. 

"I'm the one with your gun," Stiles said, voice wavering. "Get out."

"Have you ever held a gun before?"

Stiles chambered a round, steeling his nerves. He set his jaw, taking a small step back. 

"I don't have anything valuable," Stiles said, gesturing to the boxes with his head. "So get out or I'm gonna shoot you."

He didn't sound very confident in that threat, and the man knew it. His body tensed, ready to do something, and Stiles tightened his hold on the gun. 

He shot just as the guy ducked, the bullet slamming into the kitchen cabinet behind him. The kick back was much stronger than Stiles thought, nearly taking his hand off. 

The gun dropped to the floor, Stiles gasped, and then a shoulder was slammed into his stomach. Stiles was lifted off his feet before slammed down onto the floor. 

Stiles instantly stilled, the air knocked out of him. He wheezed, pinching his eyes shut in pain. Man that guy could knock a mean blow. 

"Who the fuck are you?" The guy demanded, climbing off Stiles to grab the discarded gun. He slid it into the back of his jeans and Stiles rolled to his side, finally able to inhale, sharp and painful. 

He coughed, getting his arms under him to push himself up. "How do you know Kate."

Stiles shook his head, catching his breath as he stood up. This had to be something else besides a robbery. No robber carried a Desert Eagle, or demanded who the home owners were. 

Stiles bolted for the front door, but was again body slammed. He hit the wall with a grunt, and instantly started throwing punches. He hit whatever he could, shouting and biting when he got the chance. 

"Get off! Let me go!"

The man snatched Stiles' wrist, twisting it painfully while getting Stiles to face the wall, winding his arm behind him and shoving him face first into the wall. 

"How do you know Kate," the man demanded again, hitching Stiles' arm up painfully. He fisted his hand, the other one pressed into the wall by his shoulder. 

"I don't know who you're talking about!" Stiles whined, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder when the man yanked on his arm painfully. Stiles shouted in pain, tears springing to his eyes. 

"Don't lie to me, we saw you with her yesterday," the man snapped. 

Stiles let out a frustrated sound half out of pain. "I-I dont know! I don't know who- who- please, let me go!"

"Either you tell me everything you know, or I'm going to break your shoulder."

Another hitch up and Stiles was brought to his tip toes, crying out at the pain. White hot pain that made Stiles want to pass out. 

"Ev-everything I know about- about what?" Stiles demanded frantically. 

"You've been following Derek Hale for the past three days. You were seen talking to Kate Argent."

Stiles grunted, tears dripping down his cheeks. "I don't fucking know!" He shrieked, voice going a few octaves higher than usual. 

"I moved here a week ago!"

"Don't play with me, kid!"

"I'm not!" Stiles shouted, pressing his head into the wall, gasping for breath. "I didn't run into him on purpose, and-and she, she was looking for him! That-that's all, I swear!"

The man didn't let up, and Stiles wondered if his shoulder socket could bruise. 

"Please, I'm studying to be a veterinarian at Beacon Hills college, I enrolled on a paid scholarship," Stiles gritted out. "I-I didn't mean to stumble into whatever the fuck this is!"

"What's your name?"

"Stiles," he gasped out, tears of pain still wetting his cheeks. 

"Full name," the man demanded. Stiles was grateful he didnt put any more pressure on his arm as incentive. 

"Mieczysław Stilinski."

The man grunted behind him, using a free hand to pull what Stiles assumed was a phone out of his back pocket. 

"Spell it."

Stiles did. After a minute of what he assumed was typing, the man shoved his phone back into his pocket. 

"I'm going to let you go now," the man said gruffly. Stiles wondered if he was in the military. "You try anything and I'll break your arm, understand?"

Stiles nodded frantically. "Yes." 

The man slowly released his hold, allowing Stiles' arm to drop. He whimpered, the man stepped back. 

Stiles turned around, pressing his back into the wall. He used his hand and wiped at his face, glaring at the man in front of him. 

The two stayed in silence, both tense, waiting for the other one to move. What felt like an hour later but was probably only five minutes, the phone rang and the man pulled it out. 

He kept an eye on Stiles as he read over the text message, blue eyes lifting from the screen to Stiles before he sighs. His shoulders drop a little, and something in that simple gesture makes Stiles sag against the wall. 

"Your story checks out."

"Of course it does," Stiles can't help but snap. "I grew up in Independence for fuck's sake!"

Maybe he was giving too much information to this guy, but he was kind of freaking out. The worst thing to ever happen to him in Independence was a bumper tap at a four way stop. 

Now he had a gang member in his apartment. The man wiped at the blood under his nose, smearing it onto the back of his hand with a disapproving look. 

"You have any ice?" The man asked. Stiles looked up at him with a frown. "For your shoulder."

Stiles felt the twinge in his shoulder and reached for it with his other hand, wincing a little. 

"Come on," he ushered Stiles towards the kitchen. Stiles remembered the gun tucked securely in the waistband of his jeans, so he pushed himself off the wall and walked into the kitchen. 

"You don't have any furniture," the man informed needlessly. Stiles stood against the counter, watching the man open his freezer. 

"I can't afford anything until I get paid," Stiles said, accepting the pack of frozen vegetables. He set the bag on his shoulder, eyeing the man warily. 

"Listen," Stiles says, clearing his throat when his voice wavers slightly. "I'm not- I dont want to get in the middle of this, okay? I'm not affiliated with either side of this- this pack verses hunter thing."

The man just watches him, not saying a word. "My dog ran into Derek Hale, and he followed me to my work, and the grocery store, and that woman -I'm assuming she's this Kate person you mentioned- wanted to know where Derek was-"

The man's scowl deepened. 

"I didn't say anything, okay?" Stiles snapped, adjusting the frozen vegetables on his shoulder. "Its not like I knew the answer anyways. And then this car followed me home and people keep trying to break into my apartment, you actually did, and I'm really contemplating moving back home because I'm growing gray hairs!"

The man looked slightly amused, but he was still scowling at Stiles, like he didnt believe a word Stiles was saying. 

"You'll be fine."

Stiles scoffed at him. "Says the guy with a gun who tried to dislocate my shoulder standing in my apartment."

The man cocked an eyebrow, straightening from his lean against the fridge. Stiles tensed, eyes widening. 

He reached behind him, and for a brief moment, Stiles stopped breathing. But he didnt pull out the gun. It was his phone. 

He texted someone, then put his phone back and looked up at Stiles. 

"Stay away from Kate," he demanded. "If she thinks you know anything about Derek, she'll stop at nothing until she gets it out of you."

He stepped towards the front door, passing Stiles. "You have my number. If you see her, use it."

"No, I don't-" the door shut. 

It took Stiles a long time to move from the kitchen. He took the bat with him outside, making sure to look around first before running to the car and letting Frankie out. 

The dog sniffed all over, figuring out who exactly had been all over Stiles, and the two went back inside. 

The lock was broken, the latch didn't catch anymore, and Stiles could see where the wood of the doorframe had split down the middle. His door was useless now. 

He locked the deadbolt to keep it shut and the two of them moved into his bedroom. Stiles made sure to lock that door too, and settled into the makeshift bed. 

He picked up his phone, scowling at the screen when he noticed a text from an unknown number. 

From: Unknown  
Keep away from Kate

Stiles rolled his eyes, throwing his phone into the blankets before snuggling into Frankie. 

*-*

Stiles didnt know why his life was full of bad luck, but it was. First, he somehow found himself stuck in a violent situation between Hales and Argents, had his apartment broken into, had his shoulder almost dislocated, been threatened quite a few times, and now a dog at his work was sick. 

Frankie had to stay behind with Laura -which neither Stiles or the dog was happy about- and Stiles had to drive the dog to the vet. 

Only the dog threw up in his jeep, and continued to throw up all the way to the clinic. His whole cab smelled, and Stiles knew it was gonna be a bitch to clean it. 

Stiles parked in the clinic parking lot, snatching the sick dog up into his arm and jogged up to the door. 

"Can I help you?" 

Stiles nodded at the guy behind the counter. He was black, bald, built like he used to play football in high school. 

"Yeah, he's throwing up, and Laura told me you worked with her and would know what to do."

The man eyed Stiles before looking at the dog. "Bring her back."

Stiles followed him back into the exam room, setting the dog on the metal table. 

"What seems to be the problem?" The vet asked. 

"She's lethargic, throwing up, dehydrated and her gums are white," Stiles listed. "I thought it might be Esophageal Diverticula, but Laura and I thought it would be best to see you and confirm."

"You're the vet student?"

Stiles nodded. "I start in the fall."

"Well, let's run some tests and see what we can do," the vet said, picking the little dog up. "I'll be right back, feel free to get comfortable."

He leaves Stiles alone, and Stiles sits down in the small chair by the wall, bouncing his leg. 

He sits still for a solid three minutes before he's standing up and walking around the room. He picks up the odd working utensil, naming each one in his head and moving on. 

He frowns at a bottle of black ash. He reaches for it, pulling it off the shelf and turning the bottle over. It doesn't have a label. 

He pulls the cork off and sticks his nose inside, smelling it. It smells like nothing. Stiles taps some out onto his palm, eyes widening a little at the soft burning he feels against his skin. 

Having no idea what it is, Stiles sets the bottle down, licks his finger and sticks it into the small pile on his palm, and then wipes his finger on his tongue. 

It tastes like ash, but doesnt at the same time. He scowls down at it, trying to figure out what in the world it is. 

The burning intensifies, and Stiles grunts, reaching for the bottle to return it back. He tilts his palm, and the ash moves in the oposite direction. 

Stiles yelps and shakes his hand. The ash stays where it is. Well, no, it moves across his palm! Stiles wipes at it with his other hand, forgoing the whole getting-it-in-the-bottle thing and sticking to the get-it-off-me thing. 

Only the ash doesnt get off. Stiles watches with growing horror as the ash moved up his palm to his wrist, and the burning gets worse. 

"Ow," he breathes, wincing and staring. The ash moves on its own, growing a shape at the inside of his wrist. Three spirals, one on top and two on the bottom. 

"What the fuck, what the fuck, ow!" 

The burn turns into a sizzling pain and Stiles clamps his hand over the ash, doubling over and clenching his teeth to fight off the pain. 

It's over seconds later, and when Sriles removes his hand, the spiral is still there, burned into his skin. It's dark, and Stiles can see it's still the ash, buried under his skin. 

Stiles blinks, rubbing at it, but it doesnt move. He quickly corks the bottle before any more of the ash gets out and shoves the bottle back onto the shelf. 

Just in time for the vet to come back in. Stiles pulls the sleeve of his flannel over his wrist, probably looking about as close to a kid caught with his hand in a candy jar as he could. 

"You were right," the vet said. Stiles stepped away from the shelf, moving to stand on the other side of the examination table. "Its not an extreme case of Esophageal Diverticula, so a bland diet should take care of it."

"Good," Stiles nodded, clearing his throat. His wrist still hurt. 

"I'm going to prescribe some antibiotics and anti nausea medicine to help with the throwing up," the vet continued. "She'll need each pill twice a day, and make sure she eats upright for a couple weeks."

"Okay, we'll let the owner know," Stiles nodded. Laura had said something about paying for it herself and just adding it to the bill for the owner, so he assumed the vet knew that too, since he ushered Stiles out the door with a bag of pills in one hand and a dog in the other. 

It took Stiles hours to clean up the puke. He ended up taking the jeep to a car wash and just sprayed the floorboard out as best he could. 

He used an entire roll of paper towel, and a whole can of febreeze. Frankie couldnt stop sneezing the whole drive back to the apartment. 

Stiles couldn't help but look at his wrist every couple seconds during the drive. It didnt hurt anymore, but Stiles knew whatever it was was still there. 

When he got home, he did research. It was easy to figure out what the symbol was, and from there he searched its meaning. 

It was a triskelion, and from the tens of websites Stiles read through, it represented the three realms of earth, sky and sea; or the spiritual, terrestrial and divine energies. 

Some websites said it also represented the triple godess, maiden, mother, crone, and others, the triple deities -Manannan, Hecate and Brigid. Another said it represented the eternal cycles of life, death and birth. 

It didnt bring Stiles any closer to figuring out what the fuck it was doing on his wrist, so he googled spontaneous tattoos, which lead to websites like '21 Spontaneous Tattoos to Get With Your Friends' and tattoo tips for first timers. 

So he googled tattoos that appear out of nowhere and got medical websites about what to do if your tattoo gets infected. 

Stiles groaned loudly, nearly slamming the computer shut. This was going nowhere. 

He googled black ash and got a plant native to Canada. 

"Okay, what the fuck are you," he demanded, holding his wrist up to squint at the offending black tattoo. 

He googled black ash again, cross referencing celtic symbols, and finally -finally!- he got somewhere. 

"Druids," Sriles deadpanned, rubbing his face. "Fan-fuckin-tastic!"

Frankie lifted his head from his paws to look at him, unimpressed. Stiles continued with the research. His frown deepening with everything he read. 

"Fuck this," Stiles snapped, closing the laptop and shoving it off his legs. He gets up and begins pacing, running a hand through his hair. "No way. Not possible."

Frankie just watched him, unaffected. Stiles glares at the laptop, then at the triskelion on his wrist. 

"Get off you mother fucker," Stiles demanded, shaking his wrist. "Get off! No way, no fucking way, I don't want this at all."

Frankie was used to his one man band, so he huffed, closing his eyes while Stiles snapped at his wrist, talking to himself and pacing. 

From what he read, Stiles was supposedly a druid. Which wasn't right! Stiles wasn't supernatural, he was extremely unsupernatural. 

Supernatural things happened to his friends, not him! And why would it take so long to figure that out anyway? Stiles was almost twenty three years old! 

He needed air. 

Stiles knew it was probably a bad idea to go to a club with all the shit going on, but he needed a drink. Many drinks. 

He grabbed his keys and wallet, slapping his back pocket to make sure his phone was there before leaving. 

He made sure the door was locked and climbed into the jeep. It took a second for the jeep to start up, but when it did, Stiles peeled out of the parking lot and headed to the club he'd passed a week ago. 

Sinema, as it turned out, was a mixed club, and very, very nice. Chains hung from rafters, men and women scantily dressed danced on little podiums, and old fashioned movies played on the walls overhead. 

The music was loud, thumping in his chest. Stiles made his way to the bar, flagging down a cute shirtless guy. 

"What can I get for you, gorgeous?" He asked, leaning over the bar. 

"Something strong," Stiles said. He wasn't a drinker, not really. But tonight he was gonna be. 

"Comin' right up," the guy grinned. Stiles grinned, turning to check out the open floor. It was crowded, full of men and women. The music was louder on the dance floor. He saw workers in tight clothing walking around with glow sticks and shots. 

He saw men grinding on other men, girls dancing with girls, guys laughing with women, sneaking out of the back door. Groups of women dancing together, and -were those drag queens?

"Here you go." Stiles turned back to the bar, grinning at the bar tender and reaching for the glass. 

He drank it in two big gulps, the fruity burn of the drink moving from his tongue down his throat. 

"Keep 'em comin'," Stiles demanded, setting the glass down. 

"Bad day?"

"Bad week," Stiles corrected. The bar tender nodded and mixed another drink. 

The drinks kept coming as long as Sriles was still coherent. The bar tender cut him off on his fifth. 

"Why don't I get you a water and you dance it off?" The bar tender asked. Stiles scowled, pointing a finger at the empty glass. It felt like he was moving underwater. 

"One more," Stiles begged, voice coming out a little slower than normal. 

"You really shouldn't-"

"I've got the money," Stiles snapped. Or at least he tried. "Just, give me a double and I'm done, pro-promise."

After a second, the bar tender conceded and made a double. Stiles grinned, snatching it up when he set it down. 

Stiles downed it, wincing at the burn. He set the glass down and stumbled away from the bar, suddenly needing to take a massive piss. 

He made his way to a hallway. It was dimly lit, the music muffled. He was just reaching the mens room door when the door at the end of the hallway swung open and three men stepped out. 

Stiles stumbled into the door frame. He scowled at it, taking a deliberate step to the left and then walking into the bathroom. 

He made his way to the urinals when the door opened again, and then hands were gripping his flannel and he was shoved into the wall. 

"Derek, let him go."

Stiles blinked, eyes focusing on the guy in front of him, which was growling. 

"Oh, hey," Stiles hummed, recognition filtering through the alcohol. "I know you."

Derek was ripped away and Stiles stumbled on his feet. "Go take a walk, Derek." Stiles looked at the other two men, his eyes landing on the blue eyed blond. 

"I know you too," he scowled, tipping a bit to the side and bracing himself on the wall. Derek shrugged off the hand on his shoulder and left, slamming the door on the way out. "You broke my arm."

"I didn't break your arm," the man said with a roll of his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I came here to piss," Stiles said, suddenly remembering why he was in the bathroom. He nearly tripped on his way over to the urinals, but the second man grabbed his arm to steady him. 

Stiles giggled, leaning against the man while his feet took a second to get under him. 

"I think he means what are you doing in the club," the one currently keeping Stiles from face planting said. 

Stiles looked up at him, then looked at the blond. "Am I in trouble?"

"No," the blond shook his head. Stiles nodded, the movement messing with his balance. 

"Maybe you should sit down," the one holding him suggested. 

"That- that's prol-prolably a good idea," Stiles nodded when he realized he couldnt get his fingers to work on his button. "Hey, what's your name?"

He looked over at the blond. "You know my name. Its very long."

"Chris," the blond said easily. Stiles let his head roll to the other guy, who was walking him to the stall. 

"Peter Hale."

Stiles' eyes widened, mouth falling open. "Whoa," he gaped. Peter just rolled his eyes, shutting Stiles into the stall. 

"You're the alpha," Stiles said to the door, holding out a hand to brace against the stall. 

"I am."

"That's- that's pretty cool, dude," Stiles nearly slipped and giggled. 

"I don't hear any peeing." That was Chris. 

"Oh, right," Stiles fumbled for his jeans. It took him much too long to get his pants down, and fell rather than sat on the toilet. 

When he finished, he leaned against the wall, pulling his pants up and buttoning them. He flushed, nearly falling headfirst into the toilet before stepping back. 

The door opened and Stiles stumbled out, going for the sink. "How many drinks have you had?" Peter asked, leaning against the opposite wall. 

His suit was gray with a matching vest and a maroon button up underneath. Chris' was blue with a matching blue undershirt. 

"Seven," Stiles answered, wiping his wet hands on his shirt front. "I had a double. But it was the same 'mount as a single, so I think that guy jipped me."

"I think maybe you should cool it on the drinks for tonight," Peter said. Stiles scowled. 

"Hey," he huffed, pointing a wobbly finger at him. "I'm a legal adult." Peter raised an eyebrow, probably trying to look intimidating. "M'not 'fraid of you."

"You're too intoxicated to be afraid of me," Peter supplied. 

"No," Stiles said, turning to Chris. "I'm much more 'fraid of him than I am of you."

Peter snapped his teeth at Stiles, and Stiles' eyes widened a bit before he giggled. 

"You should be more afraid of me."

"Well, he broke into my house," Stiles said, pointing at Chris. "And broke my arm."

"Your arm isnt broken."

Stiles shrugged, waving a dismissive hand at Chris' direction before stumbling to the door. 

"Where are you going, sweetheart?" Peter asked, heaving himself off the wall. 

"To get another drink," Stiles informed him, reaching for the door handle. He managed to get out into the hallway before a hand steadied him. 

He looked behind him to see Chris. He grinned. "You should buy me a drink."

"I think you've had enough."

The hallway wasnt as loud as the actual club, but Stiles could still hear the heavy base vibrating through his chest. 

"No, not yet," Stiles said, shaking his head. "Wanna forget."

"Forget what, sweetheart?" Peter asked. Stiles leaned against the wall, arms gesturing wildly around the three of them. 

"Did you know I am gonna be a vet?" Stiles asked. "And now I can't!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Well," Stiles huffed. "I can't be a vet anymore because now I'm supposed to be a- a, like, a wizard."

Peter raised an eyebrow, looking beyond amused at Stiles' expense. "Oh, really?"

"Uh-huh," Stiles nodded, reaching for the sleeve of his shirt. "See? The magic ash said so, so I can't be a vet."

The amused look fell from Peter's face and he stepped forward, taking Stiles' wrist to inspect the triskelion. 

"Where'd you get this?" Peter demanded. 

"The vet gave it to me," Stiles hummed. "Have you met the vet? I'm gonna be a vet, I start school in the fall."

"When did you get it?" Chris asked. 

"Today."

"Why don't we get you some water," Peter said, hand still holding Stiles' wrist. "This is a discussion I'd rather have sober."

"I'd rather have alcohol," Stiles said, turning towards the club. Peter didn't let go of his arm, and instead tugged him towards the end of the hall. 

"Where are we going?" Stiles asked, stumbling after them. "I'm not supposed to get into trouble. My dad's gonna be mad."

"You're not in trouble," Chris assured, placing a hand on Stiles' lower back. Peter opened the door at the end of the hall, and the two ushered Stiles inside. 

"Is this a secret tunnel?" Stiles asked in a stage whisper. 

"Watch your feet."

Stiles looked down at his feet with a scowl, his toe scuffing at a stair. It took him a second to figure out what to do, and then he was climbing the stairs. 

"Are you sure I can't get one more drink?" Stiles asked, looking over at Chris. 

"You can drink water," Chris said. Stiles huffed, lost his footing and giggled when Chris kept him from cracking his head on the tile. 

They continued to walk up the stairs, the pace slower because of Stiles. 

"Hey, you have a really nice ass," Stiles commented, eyeing Peter's rear end through his gray trousers. 

Peter spared a glance back, a smirk on his face. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"You're welcome," Stiles nodded. "More people should appreciate things."

The two men chuckled. Stiles turned to Chris, nearly missing a step. 

"You have pretty eyes," he said. He leaned back, turning his head to get a look at his ass and nearly fell down the stairs. 

"Careful," Chris grunted, pushing Stiles forward again. 

"You have a nice butt too," Stiles hummed. 

The stairs ended, and Peter lead the two to another door. Stiles whistled when he walked in. 

"That's a big window."

The whole space was big. Big living room with w big couch and a big tv. Chris lead Stiles to said big couch while Peter disappeared into another room. 

"Being in a gang has lotsa perks," Stiles hummed, looking around the room. 

"Its not a gang," Chris huffed. "Its a pack."

"Issa li'le bit a gang," Stiles said, pinching his two fingers together as proof of how little. Chris chuckled a little, guiding him to sit just as Peter entered with a tall glass of water. 

"Drink this."

Stiles took the glass, slightly disappointed that it wasnt alcohol. He took a sip. He had to use both hands to keep the glass from slipping and falling into his lap. 

"All of it," Peter demanded. Stiles pulled a face. 

"You're very bossy," he said, glaring up at Peter. It wasn't much a glare as it was a scrunched nose and furrowed brows. 

Peter just looked at him expectantly, so Stiles huffed and drank the whole glass. 

Chris took the empty glass and left for the kitchen. Peter moved to sit on the coffee table in front of Stiles, grabbing his wrist to look at the tattoo again. 

"Its permanent," Stiles sighed. "Thingie just jumped under my skin, and now I got a tattoo. I don't like needles, so I never got one before."

"Why don't you get some rest," Peter said, standing up and using Stiles' hand to haul him up as well. "You're not as sober as I'd like."

"Ah, because a drunk yes is not concent," Stiles nodded, stumbling after Peter as he lead Stiles down a hallway by his wrist. "I think sober me would say yes, though. Is that why I'm here? Are we gonna have sex? 'Cause I'm not ready."

"No, Stiles, we're not going to have sex," Peter sighed. Stiles pouted, but said nothing. 

Peter lead him to a bedroom, a queen sized mattress in the middle with a nightstand and lamp on either side. 

Stiles flopped foen onto the edge, nearly missing the bed entirely. He laughed, Peter placing a hand on his shoulder to keep Stiles from sliding off the bed. 

"Shoes off," Peter nodded at Stiles feet. 

"Yes, sir," Stiles mock saluted, giggling a little before leaning forward. He rested his chest on his knees, picking at the laces of his converse. 

"Sober me is a dick," Stiles said after a minute of fumbling. "Who fuckin' double knots their shoes?"

"You do," Chris said, leaning against the doorframe. 

He didnt realize Peter had untied his shoes until they were being pulled off. 

"Thank you," Stiles hummed. "That's so nice. You know, you're a really nice guy."

"No, I'm not," Peter huffed. He stood up and shoved Stiles' shoulder for good measure. 

Stiles fell to his back with a hiccup, laughing a bit before remembering Frankie. 

"Oh, I gotta go home now," he said, struggling to sit up again. 

"You're not driving as drunk as you are," Chris frowned, shaking his head. 

"But Frankie is at the apartment, an' I gotta feed him!" Again, he tried to sit up, but when he managed to get partially up, Peter shoved his shoulder again, knocking him back down. 

Stiles grunted in frustration before huffing defeat. The bed was nice. 

"I think he'll be fine until the morning," Peter said. 

"But he'll be lonely," Stiles pouted. "And I'm his dad, so I gotta- uh, gotta go snuggle him."

Stiles wasnt making it easy on Chris and Peter, but they managed to get his jeans off and get him under the covers. 

Peter folded them and set them on the nightstand. "This is a nice bed," Stiles hummed, settling under the thick comforter. 

"Go to bed, Stiles," Chris huffed, the two of them watching Stiles sink further into the bed, almost disappearing between the pillows and blankets. 

*-*

Stiles woke up to a splitting headache. He groaned, burying his face into the pillow under his head. The pillow was obnoxiously fluffy, filled with enough feathers and cotton to suffocate him. 

It took him a long time to figure out he wasn't at home, and then everything crashed into his already throbbing head and he groaned again. 

He climbed out of bed, head spinning as he stepped into his pants, doing up the button before lacing up his shoes. 

A feel around informed him his phone, wallet and keys were in their respective pockets and he made his way to the bedroom door. 

A quick look around the hallway told him it was empty, and Stiles stepped out, ready to find the door and go home. 

The hallway opens up to a living room. It's more of a common area if Stiles was being honest. A common area for rich people. 

There was a large U shaped dark leather couch with a matching ottoman -the kind that when pushed into the middle of the couch made it into a bed of sorts. Enough to sleep twelve. 

Beige and brown throw pillows liked the back, and a wicker basket to one side had folded afghan blankets inside. 

There was a large tv on the wall facing the couch, big enough to double as the screen of a movie theater. 

The outside wall wasn't really a wall at all. It was a window, thick panes of glass from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, looking over downtown Beacon Hills from above the night club. 

These people even had a fireplace, situated right behind the couch, with enough room for a couple lounge chairs. 

Stiles shook his head. He needed to find the door out of here. He had a splitting headache that not even his Adderall was gonna fix, and he had to take care of Frankie. 

He turned from the large living room and jumped, a squeak leaving his mouth when he saw a man leaning against the wall that lead to what Stiles assumes is a kitchen, or maybe a dining room. 

The man smirks, and Stiles remembers this is Peter Hale. 

"Sleep well, Druid?"

Stiles' momentary shock gives way to confusion, then frustration. 

"I'm not a druid," Stiles snaps. Peter raises a challenging eyebrow and Stiles drops his gaze to look down at his wrist. 

He knew it was still there. Had the urge to check, but he left his sleeve alone. 

"Now that you're sober, we need to talk," Peter said, in a tone that Stiles compared to his dad's tone when he's talking to the teenagers he brings in for underage drinking. 

Stiles steals himself. He's not a teenager. 

"I actually have to go," Stiles said, heading for what he hoped was the front door. Peter growls, not moving from his spot, arms crossed over his chest. 

The growl sent Stiles' brain into fight or flight. It was a threatening growl -the growl that promised pain and sharp teeth if not heeded. 

Stiles had heard that growl before, when he was seven and the neighbor's dog got out. He still had the scar on his ankle. 

Stiles' whole body locked up, heart jumping into his throat. Instead of moving forward like he had been, he takes a step back, eyes wide. 

"Knock it off, Peter."

Stiles' eyes move from Peter to the owner of the voice behind him. Chris. The one who almost dislocated his arm. 

Peter looks over his shoulder, the two talking with only their eyes before Peter's looking back at Stiles, and Chris is stepping around him. 

"We just want to talk," Chris said. Neither one of them were in suits. Chris wore a tshirt and running shorts. Looking closer, Stiles noticed a thin sheen of sweat, the collar of his shirt damp. He must've just gotten back from a run. 

Peter was in a similar outfit. Being a werewolf, there was no sweat. Did werewolves even sweat?

"I don't want to talk to you," Stiles found himself saying like a petulant child. He even went as far as crossing his arms over his chest. 

"You have no idea what that mark on your wrist means," Chris pointed out, giving Stiles a look that dared Stiles to prove him wrong.

"I do, actually," Stiles quipped. Peter stayed leaning against the wall, watching on in silence. Chris was trying to amble closer to Stiles. Stiles kept a wary eye on both of them. 

His window on getting to the front door was closing with every step Chris took forward. 

"I already told you, I dont want any part of this," Stiles said, taking a step back on instinct when Chris got ten feet from him. 

"Too late for that, sweetheart," Peter said, sounding amused and bored at the same time. Stiles shot him a glare, the back of his thighs pressing into the back of the couch. Nowhere else to go. 

"No, this is all your fault," Stiles snapped, jutting a finger between the two men. Chris had stepped forward without him knowing. 

"This whole city is crawling with Hales and Argents, and I wouldve been just fine running into Derek, but then you-" Stiles points the finger at Chris, "-broke into my house! Now I'm fucking involved-"

Chris grabbed him by the shoulder, cutting Stiles off. When did he get so close? Stiles jerked his shoulder out from underneath, stepping to the side. 

"Don't touch me."

"Don't be difficult, sweetheart," Peter said, also moving forward. They were going to box him in! "You've got the triskelion on your wrist, you wouldve gotten involved whether Chris showed up at your apartment or not."

"Don't call me sweetheart," Stiles bit out. Peter just rolled his eyes. He unfolded his arms, eyes moving from Stiles to Chris. "Bring him into the kitchen, darling. I don't have time."

Stiles watched as Peter turned on his heels and made his way back to the kitchen. Before Stiles could do anything else, Chris had Stiles by the back of the neck, and yanked him forward. 

"Hey! Let-" Chris grabbed his wrist with his other hand, manhandling him into walking forward. "You fucking-"

Stiles ducked under his hand, trying to make a dash for the door. The hand on his wrist kept him from going anywhere, and Chris grunted as he tried corralling Stiles in. 

"Get off me!" Stiles yelled, digging his heels into the hardwood floor, yanking at his arm. 

Chris got a second arm around his waist, pulling him towards the kitchen. Stiles flailed his free arm, managing to land an elbow to Chris' nose. 

He let out a pained noise and barely hesitated a moment before grabbing both Stiles' elbows and yanking them behind him. Stiles yelped, breathing hard. 

Chris linked their arms, Stiles' bent behind him, and frog marched towards the kitchen. Peter was behind the counter, three mugs in front of him. 

"You're bleeding," Peter commented. Huh, Stiles thought proudly. Must've elbowed him harder than he thought. 

"He's slippery," Chris grumbled, forcing Stiles towards the kitchen island. 

"Could you fucking let me go?" Stiles snapped, trying to pull himself out of Chris' arms. He was strong damnit. 

Stiles didn't wait for either one to respond before he kicked his legs out, ready to fall flat on his ass to get out of the hold. 

Chris grunted, not expecting to carry all of Stiles' weight, but he was quick to accommodate. Stiles yelped when he was pushed onto the counter, a hand between his shoulder blades keeping him still. 

"You're making this way harder than it needs to be, Stiles," Chris scolded. Stiles sent him a sideways glare, palms flat on the countertop. 

"Although you two look really pretty in that position," Peter said with a put upon sigh. "Chris is right."

Peter leaned his elbows on the counter, head dropped a little to look at Stiles face. "We just want to talk. After words if you still want to leave, we wont stop you."

Stiles chewed it over. Best case, Chris let him go and he could run for the hills. He could sit and let them talk and then he could leave. Worse case they talk, and then keep him here. 

The last one didnt seem likely, seeing as they let him keep his phone and wallet. 

"Okay," he said, nodding his head once on the table. Peter cocked an eyebrow, waiting a moment before nodding at Chris. 

Chris took his hand off of Stiles' upper back, stepping away so Stiles could straighten. 

When standing, he shook out his clothes a little aggravatedly and glared as Chris moved to stand on the other side of thr counter. 

His nose was still bleeding, but it wasnt bad. No broken bones. The trickle was easily tapered off with a tissue. 

"Take a seat," Peter said, pushing one of the mugs towards Stiles. He didnt touch it, but he sat down, muscles tense. 

Peter turned to Chris, checking his nose with a scowl before turning to Stiles again. 

"That's the second time you made Chris bleed," he said, voice low. "There wont be a third time, is that understood?"

Well, Stiles wasn't planning on having a third run in with Chris. "Understood," Stiles agreed. Peter nodded once before settling into his own chair. 

Chris stayed standing. He tossed the bloody tissue into the trash before resting his elbows on the counter. 

"How about you start by telling us how you got your mark," Peter suggested, nodding to Stiles' wrist, which was hidden in his crossed arms. 

He wanted to look at it again, see if it was still there, but he knew it was. He could feel it. Not physically, but he felt it was there under his skin. 

"I touched mountain ash and it burned itself under my skin," Stiles cliffnoted. "Why does that matter anyway? Unless you have a way to get rid of it."

"It matters because you, little druid, belong to us," Peter said, looking both parts amused and proud -like it was a privilege to be apart of his pack. 

"But I'm not-" Stiles huffed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not a druid! I don't know magic, or-or worship trees!"

"Do you know what mountain ash can do?" Chris asked, finally dropping down in the seat beside Peter. Stiles had the smallest inkling that those two were closer than they let on. 

"It keeps supernatural creatures in or out," Stiles quoted. He hadnt read very much about the ash itself, more worried about the tattoo portion. 

"Yes, in broader terms," Chris said, nodding. "Druids use it when they're looking for their place."

"Their place?" Stiles asked skeptically. 

"The mountain ash isn't sentient," Chris continued. "But it's been known to leave marks on certain magic wielders. It helps them find their pack."

"I'm not a 'magic wielder'," Stiles countered -again, because neither seemed to understand that Stiles didnt do magic. "I can barely boil water without setting off smoke alarms."

That got a smirk out of both men, but that wasn't Stiles' intention in the slightest. 

"You just need to learn, sweetheart," Peter supplied, like this type of conversation was normal. It probably was. For them. 

"Okay," Stiles grunted, eyeing the two older men. "Say hypothetically, I am a druid. How do you know I'm your druid?"

"The triskelion," Peter said, nodding to his wrist again. Stiles scratched at the fabric over the mark. "Its like a family Crest."

Stiles scowled at that. His research said nothing about family Crests. Peter sat up a little straighter, tugging at the neck of his workout shirt until it was lifted over his head. 

He turned a bit in his seat, facing Chris more before lifting his right arm. There, in dark ink and about the size of Stiles' hand was a triskelion. 

Stiles blinked at it. It was a larger version of the one on his wrist, though Stiles knew that one was made with actual ink, and the one on his wrist was made with magic ash. 

"My nieces and nephew also have their own," Peter informed. He left his shirt off, the wad now under his arms as he leaned over the counter. "As well as a few of my betas."

"Do you have it?" Stiles asked, looking at Chris. He gave a short smile and shook his head. 

"I'm an Argent," he informed. "Not a Hale."

Stiles' eyes widened a bit and he frowned, sitting back in his chair, like it would be easier to process from a distance. 

"But I thought the Argents and Hales were mortal enemies," Stiles said after a moment. "Like, the Hatfields and McCoys."

"That's not a bad comparison," Peter chuckled. Before Chris could speak, Peter hummed. "I think this discussion is going to take longer than we thought."

Stiles blinked. He didnt even know what time it was. He still had to go home and take care of Frankie, and he had a shift tomorrow. 

"I gotta go," Stiles said, sliding off the chair. 

"I think it's best you don't," Peter said, eyebrows lowering the slightest bit. 

"I'm sorry, but I've got a life -well, sort of- but I have a dog at home and I'm a little too overwhelmed with all of this, and to be honest, I don't really want to be a druid, so I'm going to go home."

Peter and Chris both stood up, but didnt really follow Stiles. "Please just leave me alone," Stiles continued, backing out of the kitchen. 

He turned and made it to the front door before a hand landed on his shoulder. Stiles looked over to see Peter. 

He was close. Stiles could see flecks of grey in his eyes. If he let himself look at Peter's exposed chest, he was sure he'd be able to see the ripple of barely there goose flesh too. 

"You're an untrained druid, Stiles," Peter said lowly. "You need to be taught to control your gifts."

Stiles frowned, yanking the door open. "I'm good," he said. "Its not been a problem the last twenty three years."

"You were marked for me," Peter bit out. Stiles couldn't pretend not to hear the possessiveness to his low tone, or the way his fingers flexed on his shoulder. 

Stiles shook his head, shaking out of Peter's hold and stepping out. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I can't be a druid or be a part of a pack -of your pack."

After a second, Stiles turned his head and took the stairs at a fast pace. He slammed into the door at the bottom of the steps. 

The club was empty, chairs flipped up on tables and the smell of cleaner and bleach in the air. The projectors were turned off, thr chains hanging front the rafter were still. 

Stiles didn't spend too much time looking at the changes from the night before. He made it outside and to his jeep. 

The drive back to his apartment was silent. Stiles didnt dare think about what Peter and Chris had told him. 

When he got to the apartment he let Frankie out, apologizing to the dog and petting him over and over. 

After taking care of Frankie, the two settled with a late breakfast. He hoped Chris and Peter woilsnr show up. He couldn't do this. 

Sure, he had grown up with werewolves -his best friend was one- but there was a big difference between what he was used to in Independence and what he was facing here in Beacon Hills. 

For starters, Independence had a small pack of four. Scott, Liam, Hayden and Kira. They were the only supernatural creatures in all of Independence -that Stiles knew of at least. 

The most Scott and his merry band of supernaturals had to worry about was following the rules. They went out on full moons, they had pack nights, every once in a while they had to run a feral omega out of town, but that was it. 

The Hale pack -from what Stiles gathered- was a lot meaner. A lot more violent and definitely bigger. The Hale pack had been around for centuries, and they dipped into shady business if the local rumors were anything to go on. 

And now Stiles was somehow tethered to them? Because of this stupid mountain ash. That's why Stiles didn't believe them. If -and thats a really big fucking if- Stiles was a druid, he assumed he'd be Scott's. 

The two had been inseparable through middle and high school. So why would this 'not sentient' mountain ash choose someone as ruthless and dark as Peter Hale?

*-*

Stiles pretended nothing happened. He went to work, he took care of Frankie, he called his dad. He wore long sleeve shirts even as it started warming up, and had all but forgotten the triskelion on his wrist. 

He never saw Chris or Peter, and if he saw Derek, it was at work while talking to Laura. Stiles got the impression they knew each other as more than landlord and business woman. 

Derek didn't talk to Stiles. He kept his looks to that of a skeptical curiosity or possibly a disbelieving anger. Either way, Derek thrummed negative energy, so Stiles wasn't upset that he kept his distance. 

As the days wore on, Stiles let his guard down little by little. He shouldve known better, because when he wasn't expecting it is usually when shit got bad. 

Stiles was on his way home from a trip to the corner store when a black SUV screeched to a halt beside him. 

Stiles didn't bother looking to see who it was. He took off in a dead run, dropping the plastic bag of frozen pizza and Pepsi. 

He could hear the slap of feet against cement. He glanced back, eyes widening when he spotted the loose blonde curls of Kate Argent and two other people. 

"Get him!" She demanded. Stiles pushed himself further, grabbing his phone as he took a corner. 

Stay on the main roads. Find civilization. Call for help. 

His fingers worked deftly across the screen of his phone and when he hit the right number, held it to his ear. 

He felt one of the men gaining on him, so he made a quick decision and used a street lamp to turn him down another street. 

"Who is this?"

"Uh," Stiles gasped out. He was not used to running. "Kate. She's here."

"Where are you."

Stiles pushed himself to keep running, hearing the shouts of the three people behind him. He was close to Sinema. 

"Downtown. Passing Old West Road."

He shoved his phone in his pocket, pushing himself towards Sinema. 

"Gotcha!"

Stiles yelped, feeling a hand grab his shirt and yank him. His own momentum used against him to slam into the brick wall of an office building. 

Stiles gasped, feeling the brick digging into his shoulder blades. The man holding him slugged him across the jaw, stopping his failed attempts to get away. 

"You're fast, I'll give you that," Kate grinned, hair now windswept and cheeks rosy from the run. 

The man holding Stiles to the side of thr building was built like a weightlifter with a receding hairline and dark eyes that sat too close together. 

The other man beside Kate was thinner, rat-like with a thin nose that looked like it had been broken too many times and a protruding chin. 

"I don't know where Derek is," Stiles gasped out, still winded from the run and getting slammed into the wall. His jaw tingled from the hit, but he felt alright besides. 

Kate laughed, stepping closer. "You see, I don't believe you," she said, running a finger over his jaw. Her nails were long, the tip scratching almost painfully. 

"I know you've been spending time with the Hales," she continued. "And I have quite the bone to pick with Derek."

"Dog jokes?" Stiles found himself asking with a scoff. "Could you be any more specist?"

A twinkle of amusement flashed in her eyes and Stiles glanced around, hoping Chris was on his way. 

"I like you, kid," Kate hummed. "You're cute."

Stiles swallowed thickly. The weightlifter had both his arms pinned to the brick wall, he couldnt defend himself. 

"So why don't you just give me what I want and I wont have to ruin that pretty little face." Stiles thrashed when Kate grabbed his jaw, nails digging into his skin. 

He yanked at his arms, managed to kick weightlifter in the shin, but a fist to his mouth stunned him still. 

"Bring the car around," Kate said. Stiles could taste blood on his tongue. Did he bite it or was it coming from his lips?

"Look at his arm," weightlifter said, nodding to Stiles' wrist, that got exposed during his fight to get out. 

Stiles began to yank his arms again, the fight returning when Kate eyed the triskelion. He saw the slow smirk build and his heart jackrabbited in his chest. 

"Now why would Peter leave his druid all alone?" Kate inquired, her whole body language shifting. Her sights had been on Derek, but now she looked like she hit the jackpot. 

Because druids ran with the leader of the pack. Stiles was a direct line to the alpha. Kate didn't need Derek. 

He saw the SUV swing around the corner. He had to get away. Who knew what this bitch would do to get Stiles to tell her where Peter was. She was willing to go pretty far for Derek. 

She eyed him with a curious smirk, head tilting this way and that, before her smirk turned into a mixture of excitement and surprise. 

"Oh, you're just a baby," she hummed. "You've barely stepped foot into your magic."

She was manic now, laughing. The SUV pulled up beside them. Stiles felt the blood dribble down his chin and fill his mouth. Maybe he husted a tooth. 

"This just isn't your week, is it sweetie?" She fake pouted, running her fingers through his hair. Stiles yanked his head away. "You can't even properly defend yourself."

Stiles spit the blood from his mouth when it threatened to spill over his lip. 

"I'm not a part of the Hale pack," Stiles ground out between clenched teeth. The iron tang of blood made Stiles nauseous, but he ignored the roll to his stomach. 

Kate chuckled. "Get him in the car," she said to the bodybuilder. "Theres a couple people who would love to meet you."

Stiles' eyes widened and he yanked himself from Bodybuilder, shouting and thrashing and kicking. 

Kate was already in the car when the whistle-thump-grunt had the bodybuilder dropping like a rock. Stiles scrambled from him, eyes wide when he saw an arrow through the side of his neck. 

He looked up to see Chris, crossbow pressed to his shoulder, aimed at the second guy. Peter was there too, shifted and growling as he stalked forward. 

The SUV screeched into motion and Peter took off into a run. Kate left the other man. Stiles stumbled back when he pulled out a gun, aiming it at Peter. 

Chris shot him too, and he dropped with a gurgling gasp. The arrow was in his chest. Stiles felt his stomach flip. 

Peter was at Stiles' side the moment Stiles dropped to his knees to hurl. 

He pinched his eyes shut, gasping for breath while Peter knelt beside him, soft noises leaving his lips as he rubbed Stiles' back. 

Chris was checking the two men on the floor. Checking to see if they were alive. Stiles felt his stomach roll again and he leaned forward. He saw the blood mixed in with the contents of his stomach. 

"We have to go," Chris said after a while. Stiles was shaking. Why? He wasn't cold. 

"I'm in shock," Stiles frowned. He had no reason to be. He sat back on his legs. "W-why am I in shock."

"Its alright, Stiles," Peter said, forcing Stiles to his feet. "Let's go."

"I shouldn't be in shock," Stiles shook his head. His eyes caught the two men laying on the sidewalk.

He noticed the pool of blood growing slowly around each of them. He moaned with another wave of nausea, his knees buckling. 

Peter kept him from hitting the ground. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you home."

Stiles nodded mutely, mind racing. It was easy to fall into a clinical mindset as Peter and Chris walked Stiles to an awaiting car. 

He went down the list, starting with anaphylactic shock. It helped him not think about the two men on the sidewalk behind them. 

He wasnt having an allergic reaction. Cardiogenic shock was out -no heart attack symptoms. Hypovolemis shock happened with blood lose, but Stiles didnt think he lost twenty percent of his blood, so he moved on. 

Neurogenic shock was from damage to the spinal cord, and although he was slammed into the wall, he didnt think it was hard enough to cause shock. Plus, he thought. He was walking fine. 

It wasn't septic shock either. Emotional shock was most likely what it was. A psychological response to a terrifying or traumatic experience. 

But Stiles didn't think what happened was quite that traumatic. He got beat up in high school all the fucking time, and a lot worse than what happened just a few minutes ago. 

"We're here."

Stiles blinked, frowning up at the neon Sinema sign. He didn't remember getting in the car. Chris was at his door, helping him out. 

There was a back door, Stiles vaguely noted. They walked him up a flight of stairs and then Stiles found himself back in the large living room. He wondered if this was the penthouse. There was only three floors from what Stiles could tell. 

He wondered if Peter or Chris owned the building. It would make sense if they did, being able to live above their night club. 

A cold glass was pressed into Stiles' hands. Stiles blinked, looking up at Peter before down at the glass. 

"Drink."

Stiles took a sip. Peter stepped away to talk with Chris behind the couch. Stiles let the glass rest on his thigh, eyes unfocused. 

When Peter sits on the ottoman coffee table thing, it makes Stiles jump, heart beat rising just a little as he refocused on Peter. Chris sits down next to him, the both of them looking at Stiles with concern. 

"Tell us what happened," Peter said. Stiles blinked. It took a moment for his brain to process, then he frowned, looking down at his glass. 

"Uhm." His hands were still shaking. "They were looking for uh, for Derek."

Stiles scowled. It was so fucking hard for him to concentrate on the words. His mind kept going blank, or worse; remembering the sight of those guys on the sidewalk. 

"Keep going," Peter nodded. Stiles was trying. 

"I ran. One- one grabbed me," Stiles relayed. His brain and mouth were not cooperating. "Kate saw the mark."

"They were dragging you to the SUV," Chris supplied. Stiles nodded. 

"Drink," Peter demanded lightly, finger at the bottom of his glass guiding Stiles' hand to his mouth. He took another sip. He couldnt get himself to drink anymore. 

"How about you go lay down," Chris said. Stiles blinked. He had zoned out again. He focused his eyes on Chris, then shifted them to Peter. 

They were acting like he was fragile, he realized, a frown slowly pulling his features down. They had that look like they were interacting with a wounded animal. 

He was fine. Just shaken up. Itll settle in a little bit. The cup was taken from his hand, Chris getting up to take it to the kitchen. Stiles followed him with his eyes, staring at the entrance to the kitchen. 

"Come on, sweetheart."

Stiles was helped to his feet. He didnt know why they were acting like he was traumatized by the whole experience. He wasn't. 

It wasn't uncommon for Stiles to be pushed around and threatened. It happened almost daily in high school. He didnt know why his brain was having such a hard time processing. He was fine. 

He just couldnt seem to get the words out. He was fine. No broken bones, no open wounds. He was fine. 

Peter lead Stiles to a bathroom, opened up a new toothbrush and Stiles spent double the amount of time he normally did to brush his teeth. The toothpaste burned the inside of his lip, where he assumed his teeth had been punched through the skin. 

Like a three hole punch. When he was finished he followed Peter to the guest room he had stayed in a week before. 

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed. He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily. 

"We'll talk in the morning," Peter promised. Or threatened? Stiles just nodded and Peter left, shutting the door behind him. Stiles stayed like that for who knew how long. 

He managed to drag himself back to the land of the living long enough to step out of his shoes and jeans and take off his flannel before laying down. He didnt bother crawling under the covers.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles got a strange sense of deja vu the next morning. The pillow was too fluffy, the blanket filled of feathers. 

He climbed out of the bed, rubbing at his eyes and stretching before snatching up his jeans from the floor and jumping into them. 

He wrapped the flannel around his waist before stepping into his converse. He didnt bother tying them. 

"Are you planning on running away again?" 

Stiles looked up from -well, from nothing- to see Peter leaning against the wall that lead to the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. 

He was wearing dress slacks and a white button up. It was tucked in, but unlike when Derek sported the look, Peter kept the sleeves down and buttoned around his wrists. 

Really, it wasn't fair. Peter was downright lickable. 

"There's coffee on, and Chris is making pancakes," Peter said when Stiles didnt say anything. 

Stiles nodded. Peter raised an eyebrow, shocked that Stiles agreed to breakfast, or maybe waiting to see if Stiles would bolt the instant Peter turned around. 

But he didnt. Stiles found himself at the kitchen island, sitting in the chair he had been in before, arms folded and resting on the countertop. 

Stiles hadn't realized it before, but it was marble. A dark marble with rivers and streams of white and grey. 

Stiles was tapping at it when a mug of coffee was slid in front of him. He nodded in thanks before curling his fingers around the hot mug and watching the steam billow from the black coffee. 

"What do you like in it?" Peter asked. Stiles glanced up, seeing Peter stirring in sugar to his own drink. The other mug Sriles assumed was Chris' had creamer in it. 

"I drink black," he said. He took a sip of the hot beverage, dropping his eyes from the werewolf. 

After a while of staring at his coffee, he looked up to watch Chris and Peter working in the kitchen. Chris was a lot less formally dressed. He was in jeans and a plain tshirt. 

Stiles' eyes lingered on his bare arms as Chris flipped pancakes onto plates. 

He watched as Peter scent marked him in passing to the fridge -a simple hand swipe to the back of thr neck. He noted how Chris paused, head moving just the slightest with the brush of Peter's fingers. 

The kitchen was big, but Peter and Chris seemed to dance around each other anyway, side stepping each other, brushing against each other in a familiar dance. 

"You're together," Stiles found himself saying. The two paused to spare him a look before Chris set a plate of pancakes in front of him. "That's why you're not with Kate."

Chris sat down, Peter sitting next to him. "Is that why she's so bent? You break up with her to sleep with him?"

"She's my sister," Chris grumbled, looking momentarily disgusted. 

"Do you have a problem with the two of us?" Peter asked. Stiles knew his opinion on them didn't matter, and he wasn't asking because he was curious. 

"No," Stiles shrugged. "Makes sense though." Now Peter looked amused, and gestured for Stiles to elaborate as he took a bite. 

"I read a lot about your families," he shrugged. "The only reason an Argent would be associated with a Hale is if someone was fucking them or holding them against their will. And seeing as you don't seem like you're here against your will, it makes sense you two are the Romeo and Juliet of the story."

Stiles took a bite of his pancakes, shrugging again. Chris looked impressed. Peter looked amused. The three fell into a comfortable silence, eating their breakfast. 

It was so different from the last time Stiles was here. Stiles didnt have much of an appetite, pushing a piece of pancake around the puddle of syrup. 

"Kate knows where I live," Stiles said, not taking his eyes off the plate. He didnt feel safe in his apartment anymore. Not after the multiple break in attempts. His door didnt work anymore. 

"You can stay here," Chris said. Stiles looked up at him, eyeing both the men across from him skeptically. "We'll be able to keep a better eye on you, and you can study."

"Because I'm a druid," Stiles sighed, looking back down at his plate. 

"Because you're my druid," Peter corrected. Stiles looked back up at him, chewing on his cheek. 

"Do you know what Druid means in Gaelic?" Chris asked. Stiles shook his head. "It means Wise Oak. Druids are like advisers to werewolf packs. Emissaries meant to keep their packs connected to their humanity."

"So," Stiles frowned, setting his fork down in favor of tapping his fingers against the countertop. "Druids are like, guides?"

"In a way, yes," Peter nodded. "Druids have been helping werewolves since the very beginning. They keep the balance, and restore it when needed."

"And you think that's me?"

"That mark on your wrist doesnt lie," Peter said. Stiles turned his wrist over, eyeing the triskelion, seeing the tiny bits of ash almost buzzing under his skin. 

His thumb brushed against it as he frowned, trying to push it into a different shape, or maybe push it out of his skin entirely. Nothing happened. 

"You know I have a dog, right?" Stiles asked, not wanting to talk about druids anymore. He looked between Peter and Chris. 

"He's big. Like, weighs more than me and has to be taken outside," he hummed. "I'm not leaving him behind."

"So is that a yes to moving in with us?" Chris asked. Stiles scowled at that, shaking his head. 

"No, it's me trying to get you to take back the offer," he said. It made Peter huff a laugh. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. 

"I think we have room for your dog."

"I can't move in with you," Stiles said, incredulously. "I don't even know you! And you're both apart of some shady werewolf crime syndicate."

When neither looked effected, Stiles continued. "You do know my dad is a cop, right?"

"We're well aware," Chris smirked. It wasn't as devilish as Peter's smirk, but it definitely had an underlying darkness to it. 

"We're also quite aware of your record, little druid," Peter hummed, his own closed mouth smirk on his lips. He looked almost giddy to bring it up. 

"Hey," Stiles snapped, pointing a finger to Peter. "Stealing cars and breaking and entering is chump change to drug trafficking and money laundering."

"You get that from a google search?" Peter countered, smirk still on his face. Stiles scowled at him, dropping his finger. 

"No, I hacked into the police records," Stiles huffed. 

"You know how to hack into the police database?" Chris asked in shock. 

"Yeah," Stiles shrugged. "I just opened a back door into their server. Can see everything that goes on."

Stiles takes another bite of his pancakes. Theyve gone cold. "Just how smart are you?" Chris asked. Stiles couldn't help but grin, shaking his head. 

"I'm not smart," he said. "I just get bored. And I like puzzles."

"We still want you to move in with us," Peter said, bringing the conversation back around. "Kate can't get in. You'd be safe."

Stiles sighed, scratching at his hair. Logically it was a smart move. His apartment was about as safe as sleeping under a bridge at this point, and from what the two said, Frankie would be able to stay with him. 

He was just skeptical. Everything Stiles had learned about the Hales told him he should stay as far away from them as possible. Yet the triskelion on his wrist marked him as a Hale druid. 

"Okay," he nodded with a sigh. "At least until I can find a new apartment."

*-*

Stiles was not allowed to leave the house. He couldnt go with Chris and Derek to pick up his things or Frankie. 

Peter stayed behind to keep an eye on him, which just made Stiles mad. He wasn't a kid. He sat on the couch, bouncing his leg and chewing on his thumb as he waited. 

He wasn't controlling. Really, he wasnt. He was a go-with-the-flow kinda guy. Roll with the punches, make it up as you go along. But that was Stiles' stuff! His dog! He was worried they'd forget something or break something or Frankie would get confused and bolt or bite. 

"I can smell your anxiety from the kitchen," Peter huffed, walking into the living room. Stiles startled a little before pulling his thumb from his mouth. He had been biting at the nail. He scowled at the splintered end. 

"Here."

Stiles reached for it before he even realized he was doing it. He looked at the book with a curious frown. It was blank, bound in a dark leather and about as thick as a Harry Potter book. 

"What is it?" Stiles asked, looking up at Peter. The werewolf dropped into the couch with his own book, leaving plenty of room for at least three other people to sit in between them. It was a big fucking couch. 

"Its a book," Peter supplied, opening his own. 

"Obviously," Stiles rolled his eyes. He figured he wouldn't get the answer from Peter, so he opened the cover. 

Peter's name was scrawled on the first page, the handwriting in all caps. He flipped to where the table of contents shouldve been, and his frown deepened when it wasnt. 

He flipped a couple more blank pages in and got text. It was a book on druids and their magic. Stiles looked up at Peter, but the werewolf was too busy with his own book, not paying any attention to Stiles. 

Stiles huffed before settling into the couch. Peter was using his own curiosity against him. Not satiating it by telling him what was in the book. And now that the book was open, Stiles couldnt help but want to read it. 

He lost himself in thr book, learning about the first werewolves. He hadn't realized mythologies had been so intertwined. 

Druids were Celtic, yet in this book, it talked about the Greek god, Zeus. How he cursed King Lycaon and his sons. How they sought out the druids -who had shapeshifting abilities- to help remove the curse. 

"Can I shapeshift?" Stiles asked, looking up from the book. Peter looked up from his own book, smirking. Damnit. Stiles was supposed to be uninterested. He wasn't a druid. 

"You're still young," Peter said, his own book placed upside down on his lap to give Stiles his whole attention. "But once you've mastered it, you should be able to."

Stiles shouldve just left it at that. But he was curious and damn his curiosity. 

"What can I turn into?"

"It depends," Peter hummed. "You've heard of Native American spirit animals?" Stiles nodded. 

"Its sort of like that. The animal you can shift into is a part of you. It's difficult to explain without it turning into cultural appropriation -seeing as we're apart of Celtic mythology."

"What all can druids do?" Stiles asked. 

"Read the book, sweetheart."

Stiles huffed in irritation, but picked up the book and continued where he left off. 

In the story, the druids couldnt lift the curse on King Lycaon and his sons, but they taught them how to shift back and forth from wolf to man. They became emissaries to the werewolves, keeping them connected to their humanity and keeping the balance. 

He wanted to know what balance he was supposed to keep. 

"They're back," Peter spoke some time later. Stiles looked up from the book to look towards the door. 

He memorized the page he was on and shut the book, setting it on the coffee table ottoman thing and followed Peter. 

They took the back door, away from the night club and busy street. The instant Stiles stepped out into the alleyway, Frankie ran for him. 

Stiles braced for the jump he knew was coming, easily catching his front paws before they could slam down on his chest. 

Standing on his hind legs, Frankie was an inch or two shorter than Stiles. He licked at Stiles' face, tail wagging. 

After the greeting was out of the way, Stiles helped carry his things into the house. Chris had driven the jeep, and he was glad it was still in one piece. His jeep was a bit temperamental. 

Once his boxes were stacked against the wall of the guest room and Frankie had made himself comfortable on the bed, Stiles made his way back to the living room to finish reading the book. 

He was reading about what all druids could do, how the magic seemed to dilute as the druid lines became more modern. 

Something was handed to him. Stiles reached for it without taking his eyes off the page, and a couple seconds later, a hand dropped on his shoulder and he startled before looking up. 

"Food," Chris said, nodding to his hand. Stiles looked down, noticing the plate he was holding. 

"Oh, uh, thanks," Stiles frowned. He set the book down and set the plate on his lap. It was a sandwich. 

Frankie was laying on the floor under his feet, lifting his head to smell the air for what exactly Stiles had on the plate. 

Satisfied that it wasn't something he'd like, Frankie dropped his head back onto his paws. 

"Tell me about him," Chris said, sitting down next to him in the same spot Peter had been in. 

"Frankie?" Stiles asked around a mouthful of sandwich. "He's three or four. I got him almost a year ago."

"Rescue?"

"Uh-huh," Stiles nodded. "My dad hates him. Thinks hes too big."

"Why him?"

Stiles shrugged, half his sandwich already gone. "I don't know. I wanted a German Shepherd or something -a guard dog while I was away from home. Frankie was at the very end, and I didn't even realize I picked him until he was in my jeep."

Stiles set the empty plate down and looked at Frankie before grimacing. "His name was Clifford."

Chris huffed a laugh at Stiles' obvious disgust. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I grew up on Clifford the Big Red Dog, but I always imagined him to be a golden retriever, you know, the ones with the dark coats?"

"He looks more like a Frankie anyway," Chris supplied. Stiles wondered if it was only to pacify him. Chris was at least twenty years older than Stiles, and probably didnt watch cartoons. 

"He named after anyone?" Peter asked, coming in. He was in a suit, dark blue with a black button up. He looked like he was heading for an art gallery. 

"Frankie Valli," Stiles answered. Peter looked impressed as he walked across the living room with another leather bound book in hand. 

"I have another book for you," Peter said, showing off the titleless cover. Stiles reached for it, but Peter pulled it back. "How far are you in your first one?"

"More than halfway," Stiles said. "What's that one about?"

"Finish the one you have, then you can read this one," Peter said, making a show of tucking the book into his suit jacket. 

"I know what you're doing," Stiles accused with narrowed eyes. "I'm not falling for it."

Stiles leaned back into the couch, snatching up the book and making sure not to look up at Peter again. 

He glanced up when Peter stepped over to Chris, pressing a kiss to the blond before speaking lowly. 

Stiles dropped his eyes back to the book when Chris' eyes caught his, and then Peter left. Stiles counted to ten before looking up from the book again. 

"Where'd he go?"

"He has business to take care of," Chris hummed, laptop now on his lap. 

"Pack business or illegal business?" Stiles pushed. Chris looked up in amusement. 

"Both are pack business," Chris replied. Stiles hummed, looking back at the book but not actually reading it. He listened to Chris taping away at the keyboard. 

"What's the other book about?" He finally asked. Chris kept his attention to the laptop and after a moment, Stiles sighed and settled to read the rest of the book. 

*-*

It didnt take Stiles long to finish the book. He had always been a fast reader, and finished it by his third day living with Chris and Peter. 

Stiles thought living with them would be the worst, but it wasnt. Chris and Peter woke up early every morning to run, and by the time Stiles woke up, breakfast was being made. 

Stiles spent a lot of time watching how Peter and Chris acted together. He could tell they'd been together for a long time, and he was curious about how that came to be. 

The book Stiles had read was filled with druid history, the mythology and lore surrounding them and their magic. It delved into what kind of magic druids could do, and it frustratingly made Stiles more interested in it. 

He was also a little upset at the fact that the book Peter gave him seemed to prove that Stiles was, in fact, a druid. 

They were philosophers, healers and scholars. Stiles wouldnt call himself a healer, but his whole life was filled with researching, learning new things, obtaining knowledge on everything and anything that caught his eye and questioning it all. 

In ancient times, the book said, druids were famous for their human sacrifices in locations called nemetons. They had connections to natural forces such as nature. 

They believed in preserving the balance of nature itself -which, said like that didnt seem as daunting of a task as Chris and Peter made it out to be. 

Stiles also found out he had a weakness. Like werewolves to wolfsbane, druids could be poisoned by iron. Their abilities could be dampened or controlled with iron. Mistletoe could affect a druid the same it could a werewolf too. 

Druids mostly practiced herbalism, though the book mentioned shapeshifting, force of will and mysticism -which after a very confusing Google search Stiles compared closest to meditation. 

"I can't meditate," Stiles had said, looking between the two older men at the dinner table. "I don't know if you've noticed, but sitting still isn't really my thing."

Peter had chuckled fondly. "Maybe it would do you some good to release all that pent up energy. Then, it might be easier to try."

On top of herbalism and mysticism, druids had the ability to perform magic based on arcane rules of the occult -something Stiles would have to research soon. They were capable of harnessing and drawing power from not only the nemeton, but also full moons, telluric currents -which was added to his list of things to Google- and blood magic. 

He found out druids had a knack for herbalism and could create potions, salves, poisons and cures. They could drain life forces if powerful enough. 

He got a deeper understanding of what an emissary was. An advisor and a confidante were added to the list of duties Stiles had been informed of during his talk with Chris and Peter. 

"So, does your pack know about me?" Stiles had asked when he read about emissaries traditionally being hidden from all but the alpha. 

"Derek is aware of what you are to the pack," Peter had nodded. "If you feel comfortable with the whole pack knowing about you, once you've grown into your role, we can tell them."

Towards the end of the book, he learned about dark druids. A druid who went down the wrong path would become a darach. They worked mostly with blood magic, human sacrifices and dark rituals. 

When Stiles was finished with the book, he made his way into the kitchen, where Peter was making dinner. The two took turns making food, Stiles found out. 

"I finished reading your book," Stiles said, jumping onto the island counter. Peter looked up from cutting his vegetables to shoot Stiles a disapproving look. 

"Have you now?" Peter hummed, swiping the blade of the knife across the cutting board to scrape the cut vegetables into an iron skillet. 

"What's the other book about?" Stiles asked when Peter didnt say anything more. This time the look Peter gave him was more rueful, a smirk on his lips as he turned his back to Stiles to stand by the stove. 

"You can't read it yet," Peter finally said once the vegetables began sizzling. Stiles scowled just as Chris walked in. 

"Why not?" Stiles demanded, glaring at the back of Peter's head. "I've finished the other book."

Peter turned around to kiss Chris before eyeing Stiles. "The other book involves spellwork, herbology. If you're going to read it, you're going to practice it. And I'm not going to spend money on the ingredients you need to do so if you're not going to take your role as my emissary seriously."

Stiles blinked, eyebrows furrowed. After a second, Peter turned back to watch the food. Chris moved to sit in the chair beside Stiles' legs, his side pressed into his thigh as he opened up his laptop by Stiles' hip. 

Stiles tapped his fingers against the edge of the counter, growing antsy the more he thought about it. 

"Okay," Stiles conceded. Peter barely spared a glance over his shoulder. "I'll take it seriously."

Now Peter turned to face him, arms folded over his chest. "Really?" He didnt sound like he believed Stiles at all. 

Stiles nodded. "I have to prove one of us wrong," he said, causing Chris to snort. Peter and Stiles gave him a small glance before looking at each other again. 

"I'll take it seriously," he promised. "I'll do whatever the book tells me to do, and we'll see if I'm a druid or not. I wont throw it on purpose."

Peter thought about it for a long moment. It just made Stiles wriggle more in his seat, waiting for Peter to agree. He wanted to know if he was a druid or not. And what better way to prove it than study it?

"Okay," Peter nodded. "We can pick up what you need tomorrow."

*-*

Stiles woke up way earlier than he thought was necessary to Chris tugging at his ankle. The sun wasn't even out yet. 

"Hmmm," Stiles managed to groan, burying his face into his pillow. Frankie was up, excited that Chris was in the room and jostling Stiles. 

"Come on, get up," Chris said, yanking the blankets off. Stiles yelped, eyes flinging open and hands reaching for the warmth of the comforter. 

"I could've been naked, Chris!" Stiles snapped tiredly, trying to tug the blanket out from under Frankie, who was still wiggling with excitement. 

"But you're not, so get up and get dressed."

"Why? It's not even nine yet," Stiles grumbled, giving up on getting the blanket out from under the dog. He was in a wash worn tshirt and boxers. He was cold!

"You're going on a run," Chris said. Stiles finally managed to look at Chris and groaned again. He was in his running shorts and tshirt. 

Stiles wouldve found him extremely attractive in said outfit if it wasnt the buttcrack of dawn and he wasnt making Sriles run. 

"I'm good, thanks," Stiles said, flopping down into the bed. Chris huffed and then grabbed Stiles by the ankle. His eyes widened and he yelped out a protest before Chris yanked him off the bed and onto the floor with a thud and a groan. 

"Come on," Chris said, toeing at Stiles' ribs with his running shoes. Stiles curled away from the offending nudging. "If you don't get up with me, you get up with Peter, and he's not as nice as I am."

"You're not nice," Stiles grumbled, sitting up and rubbing at his sleep heavy eyes. 

"You're right," Chris chuckled, dropping a pair of running shorts into Stiles' lap. "But at least I'll let you get dressed on your own."

Running was not on his list of activities to do today -or ever, really- so he wasn't in the best mood when he walked into the living room dressed for a run and matching Chris and Peter. 

"You're not even going to let me eat?" Stiles complained when he was escorted out of the back door to the car. 

"You'll cramp up," Chris said, sliding into the front seat. 

They drove to the preserve, and then they ran. Well, jogged would be a better word. Stiles was out of breath within thr first ten minutes. Chris and -especially Peter- didn't even break a sweat. 

By the time they reached a halfway mark, Stiles' legs were burning, his lungs tight and sweat dripping down his spine. 

"How the fuck are you two still upright?" Stiles gasped out, bent over with his hands on his knees. He wouldnt put it past his legs if they decided to give out right there. 

"Well, one of us is a werewolf," Chris chuckled. He had the sense to sound a bit winded, but definitely not asthmatic as Sriles currently was. 

"The more you run the more you'll build up your stamina," Peter said. "Come on."

Stiles groaned loudly when Chris and Peter took off running again. It took Stiles a second before he made himself run after them. 

By the time the run was over, Stiles was sweating out of every pore. His muscles burned and ached and he couldnt catch a breath to save his life. 

He dropped into the grass by the car, sucking in lungfuls of air. "How the fuck," he breathed, sucking in another breath. "Do you do that every day?"

"We usually run longer," Chris hummed, reaching into the car and grabbing water bottles. Stiles looked at him incredulously. 

Chris handed one bottle to Peter and held the other one down to Stiles. 

Stiles managed to push himself up into a sitting position, snatching the bottle and gulping down the still cool water inside. 

Halfway done, he dumped the rest onto his head, the cold water feeling like heaven on his head and over his shoulders. 

He shouldve known running was going to be a thing. He had assumed it was a one time deal, but the next day, Stiles was woken up, and was forced to run. 

Peter had gone out and picked up ingredients Stiles would need to start his training. He couldnt touch them until he read about them in the book. 

Peter hid them somewhere in his and Chris' room, and Stiles couldnt go in because then Peter would smell him. 

So Stiles woke up at the ass crack of dawn and ran with Chris and Peter and even Frankie, he read the book, he went to work, and he got to know his new housemates. 

A week had passed when Laura walked into work, she had been on a small vacation to visit her little sister. 

"Why do you smell like Chris and Peter?" Was the first thing she said when she walked into the back. Frankie went over to greet her, and she knelt down to give him love while scowling at Stiles in confusion. 

"How do you know Chris and Peter?" Stiles asked, a little shocked that Laura could identify them by scent alone on Stiles. 

"Peter's my uncle," Laura informed. 

"Wait, what?" Stiles reeled. "You're a Hale?!"

"Of course I am," Laura huffed, her confusion giving way to amusement. "You're really going to look at Derek and not see the family resemblance?"

"Uh," Stiles stuttered. Because he knew Derek was a Hale, but not that Derek and Laura were siblings. And now that he was looking closer, he could see it. 

They both had dark hair, tanned skin, high cheekbones, expressive eyebrows and forest green eyes. 

"So, you gonna tell me why you smell like my uncles?" Laura prompted. It felt so weird to hear someone call Chris and Peter uncle. 

"Uh, I kind of live with them," Stiles said with a shrug. When Laura looked on with that same confused look, Stiles told her about his possibly being a druid. 

"How do you know?" Laura asked, looking more excited now. 

Stiles lifted up his sleeve to show the triskelion. "I got attacked by mountain ash."

"You're still a baby?" Laura asked. Stiles didnt miss how different it sounded coming out of Laura's mouth compared to Kate's. 

"I'm learning," Stiles said, a blush dusting his cheeks. "Peter's got books and stuff."

"This is going to be so great," Laura grinned, letting Stiles take his wrist back. "We havent had an emissary since Deaton."

"Who's Deaton?" Stiles asked. Laura gave him a look. 

"Alan Deaton. The vet?"

*-*

Stiles has a pencil in his mouth, chewing on the end, twisting it around with his tongue as he scowls down at the book on the counter. 

He's trying to match the herb with the name. He has all his little glass bottles out and a notebook with their names on it. 

The second pencil he has taps against the notebook. He only has a few on the paper. Mountain Ash, Wolfsbane, and Mistletoe. 

He wasn't even close to halfway. 

"How's it going?" Chris asked, stepping into the kitchen. He places a hand on Stiles' back, right between his shoulder blades. He's leaning down to look at the list Stiles started. 

"I can't tell which one is which," Stilea grumbled, pulling the pencil out of his mouth. Peter sides past them to start dinner. 

"That one is -" 

"Don't you fucking dare," Peter growled. Chris yanked his hand back from the glass bottle of dark purple leaves. Stiles looks over at him, seeing Peter raising an eyebrow at Chris. 

"He can figure it out on his own."

Chris lifts his hands in surrender, and Stiles notices the cooling on his back where his hand was. 

"He can't even give me a hint?" Stiles tried, arms splayed dejectedly across his papers and herbs. 

"No," Peter huffed, turning back to their meal. "If you can't figure it out, read the book again."

Stiles let out a groan, head thrown back. "You're worse than my chemistry teacher," he whined. 

Chris chuckled, leaning down and placing his hands on Stiles' shoulders. His thumbs brushed against the skin of his neck, hot breath fanning across Stiles' ear. 

"Don't get too frustrated," he said lowly. It did not send a shiver down his spine. Not even a little. "You'll pick it up eventually."

Peter eyed the two of them, and Stiles cleared his throat before sitting forward again, slipping out from under Chris' hands. 

Stiles continued to try and match up his herbs to the list he had written until Peter had finished with dinner. He had added Sage to the list when he opened the glass bottle to smell it. 

"I think it would be a good idea to take you out to a range," Chris said halfway through their dinner. "Teach you to defend yourself."

"I thought that's what I was doing," Stiles grumbled, gesturing to all of the herbs and papers and chewed pencils on the island. 

"You should learn how to shoot a gun," Chris continued. "You're not a werewolf. Even if you were a full fledged druid, you don't heal the same."

"I can shoot a gun!" Stiles snapped, biting into his food. Chris cocked an eyebrow. 

"I've seen you shoot a gun, Stiles," Chris deadpanned. "You missed, and you dropped it."

"Well, I've never fired at a living person before," Stiles defended. "My dad's a cop, I know how to fire a gun."

"I think Chris is right, little druid," Peter hummed. "Maybe the two of you can go after work tomorrow."

*-*

There was a new guy at work the next day. Laura introduced him as Donovan, and then dumped him into Stiles' lap to train. 

He'd only been working there for a month, he didnt know why Laura thought he was qualified, but he did the best he could. 

He learned a lot about Donovan; he moved here from West Virginia to stay with a buddy in town. He was supernatural, but didn't say what exactly he was. 

Stiles may be nosy, but he wouldn't force him to say if he was uncomfortable with people knowing. He had that problem in high school with being gay. 

So the two worked and talked, and Stiles kind of liked the guy. He wasn't much of a pet person, but Frankie seemed to want to spend his day with Laura anyway, so it wasnt too big of a deal. 

When he finished with work, he and Frankie headed back to the house, and then Chris took him to a range just outside of town. 

"Let me see you shoot the gun," Chris said, handing over the Desert Eagle. Stiles huffed, slapping the clip in and cocking the gun. 

He aimed, using both hands and widened his stance before firing. He emptied the full clip before turning to Chris with raised eyebrows. "See?" He hit the chest of the cardboard cutout each time. 

Chris smirked, taking the gun back and slipping it under his jacket. "How do you feel about a bow?"

"Uh, I had a toy set when I was little but I gave up trying to fire it within the first day," Stiles confessed. 

Cheis picked up the bow, handing it over to Stiles. It was heavier than he expected, and much bigger than his toy. 

"That's because it was a toy," Chris hummed. "The draw string isn't meant for practicality. Here, let me see you try."

Stiles takes the arrow from him and holds the feathered end against the draw string. He's a fumbling mess after that, dropping the arrow or not grabbing the string tight enough, or the arrow head swaying to one side. 

"This is ridiculous," Stiles huffs. Chris chuckled, gesturing for Stiles to try again. Stiles rolled his eyes but did as he was told. 

This time, Chris stepped up behind him, arms wrapping around Stiles and grabbing the bow. Stiles felt his heart beat skip and was so thankful Peter wasnt here, and that Chris wasn't a werewolf. 

"Hold this steady, but use your thumb to keep the head of the arrow in place, like this, see?"

Stiles could only nod as Chris rested the arrow shaft on Stiles' extended thumb. 

"Now, with this hand, you don't want to hold onto the string," he said, large hands guiding Stiles' fingers to pinch at the feathered end of the arrow. 

"Now, keep your arm level with your shoulder-" he placed a hand on Stiles' arm, raising it level, "there you go. Now pull back-"

Stiles felt like his cheeks were on fire. He was so fucking glad Chris was behind him and not staring at his face, but even then, Chris had his chin hooked over Stiles' shoulder, eyeing his side profile to get a nod from Stiles. 

God, he was gonna get murdered by Peter if he ever read Stiles' mind right then, having Chris pressed against his back. 

"Now, shooting an arrow is different than shooting a gun," Chris continued, moving his hands so they rested on Stiles' ribcage. He hoped Chris couldn't feel his heartbeat through the spaces. 

"You'll want to aim higher than where you want the arrow to land. The more distance, the higher you lift."

"Okay," Stiles managed, nodding once. He looked down the line of the arrow, then raised the arrow so the head was pointing to the head of the cutout. 

He let the arrow go, the string letting out a thwumping sound, the arrow whizzing through the air and landing a couple feet in front of the cutout. 

"That's good," Chris praised, squeezing at Stiles' ribs. "Don't worry about missing the mark, it gets some getting used to."

The two spent the next two hours perfecting Stiles' skills with the bow, and by the time they packed up for home, Sriles could hit the target. Cheis said he needed more practice and that he'd have to get more comfortable with the gun, but that he learned really quickly. 

When they got home, Peter was on the couch reading. "How was it?"

"He's a natural," Chris hummed, kissing Peter in greeting. Stiles dropped down onto the couch with a grunt. 

"I'm exhausted," he groaned. "You two are working me to the bone."

"Come now, little druid," Peter grinned. "You need stamina if you want to run with the wolves."

*-*

That night, Stiles couldnt sleep. He didnt know why, since he was so tired from work and the early morning run, and his time with Chris at the range. 

But he couldnt stop thinking about Chris pressed up against him, and his imagination took over from there, leaving him awake in bed with a raging boner. 

He felt guilty, knowing Chris was with Peter, and that if Peter ever found out Stiles would be found in a ditch, or a shallow unmarked grave. 

But he couldnt help it. Both men were too attractive for their age. They oozed sex appeal like honey, and weren't afraid to show it. 

Anything they wore they pulled off. The running shorts, the suits. Both men wore v-neck tshirts and jeans, and one morning Stiles walked in on Peter making coffee in nothing but a pair of low hanging sweat pants and nothing else. 

What was Stiles to do? Not fucking jerk off to the couple housing him, for one. But Stiles was palming himself through his pajama pants, the urge too great. 

He didnt know who he was fantasizing about -Peter or Chris- but at some point, right before he stuck his hand down his boxers to curl his fingers around, he began imagining the two of them together. 

He wondered who topped in the relationship, or if they switched. Was Peter just as ruthless and taking in bed as he was during the day? Or did Peter moan and gasp with need?

Was Chris rough, or soft? Stiles was brought back to Chris slamming him into the wall of his apartment, locking his arm behind him. Or when he manhandled Stiles into the kitchen and shoved him into the counter. Was he like that in the bedroom? Did he take roughly, bordering on painfully? Did Peter like that?

Stiles stroked himself, body writhing under the blankets, head falling back into the pillow. He bit his lip hard to keep from alerting Peter to what he was doing. 

Soft little pants left his mouth, accented with the tiny moans and whimpers until he was too sensitive, and then cumming in quick threads in his boxers. 

He let out a breath, blinking his eyes open to stare up at the dark ceiling. Another moment passes before he climbs out of bed to change and clean up. 

"Don't you look at me like that," Stiles huffs, seeing Frankie at the end of the bed. "I don't need your judgement."

The dog silently drops his head. Stiles wads up his soiled boxers, shoving them into the hamper between the rest of his clothes and gets a clean pair on. 

*-*

To Stiles' horror, Peter wakes Stiles up the next morning, and Stiles can't ignore how his eyes seem to travel to the hamper on the corner of the room every couple seconds. 

Stiles could die right then. Let the blanket open up and swallow him whole so he could choke on downe and feathers. 

"We're skipping the run today," Peter informs him when Stiles is awake enough to hear him. 

"Then why the hell did you wake me up at butt fuck o'clock?" Stiles groaned, flopping down onto the bed again. 

He was thankful Peter didn't grab his ankle and yank him out of the bed like Chris did. 

"How about you get your cute little butt out of bed and dressed, and you'll find out."

Stiles gaped at Peter, and blushed so hard he thought he was going to spontaneously combust. Peter smirked as he left the room. 

Stiles climbed out of bed, shoving his legs into his running shorts and snatching his tennis shoes up before walking out of the bedroom. 

He barely had time to go to the bathroom before Chris was handing him a protein bar and a water bottle. His hair was still a mess, sticking up at odd angles when he was shoved down the stairs and out the door. 

Usually they made it back to the house before nine, which gave Stiles plenty of time to walk Frankie and feed him, but he had no idea what was happening this morning, so he asked. 

"We'll be back around noon," Chris said. "Laura will stop by to take care of Frankie."

"What exactly are we doing?" Stiles asked. He was never given food before a run -he snuck some before and ended up with a Charlie horse in his side that made it hard to do anything but whine. 

"Learning," Peter said, driving away from the warehouse district and heading towards downtown. That was Peter's go to answer whenever Stiles asked. 

He was learning to run, learning to druid, learning to shoot miscellaneous weapons. Stiles huffed, settling in his chair and chewing on the very bland protein bar. 

His eyes narrowed when they pulled into a gym parking lot. He followed them in with little complaint and was surprised at the interior. 

It reminded him of the gym in Rocky. Big boxing ring in the middle, boxing equipment surrounding it, weights and other gym equipment. 

The interior looked like it hadnt been upgraded since the seventies. On top of that, the place was empty. 

"Where is everybody?" Stiles asked. 

"I know the owner," Chris said, because of course Chris would know the owner of a time capsule gym. "He gave us the morning."

"To do what?"

"Teach you how to defend yourself," Peter hummed, dropping the duffle bag he shared with Chris on the wooden bench. He reached in, pulling out bundles of white cloth. 

He tossed two at Chris, who began winding them around his wrist and palm with an efficiency only someone who boxed regularly would have. 

"Come here, sweetheart," Peter said, grabbing two more. Stiles walked over, offering his hand out. 

He watched with fascination as Peter wrapped his hand, looping between his fingers, moving up to almost his elbow before taping it down and going again on the second hand. 

"This isn't going to hurt, is it?" Stiles asked, looking over at Chris, who was barefoot and shirtless now. Dear God, fuck him. "I mean, you're not going to break anything, right?"

"I'll be careful," Chris promised, though it didnt look like he would. When Peter was finished, he shoved him forward.

Stiles hesitated in joining Chris, but a pinch to his ass got him jumping away from Peter with an indignant squawk. Both older men chuckled.

"Take off your shoes and socks, then get in the ring," Chris said, already jumping onto the raised platform with a smooth fluidity, stepping into the ring. 

Stiles huffed, heel-toeing out of his sneakers before pulling his socks off and joining him. He was not as graceful. 

Chris taught Stiles how to stand, how to block and protect his 'square'. Peter watched from the bench, adding in his two cents every once in a while. 

The first part was mostly offence defence. Stiles blocked and then Stiles punched. It wasn't fighting so much as getting into the habit, Chris had said when Stiles pointed out how slow they were moving. 

It picked up when Stiles got better, and then Chris wasn't naming the punches, and they came at Stiles faster, but Chris never laid a hand on him, even if Stiles missed. 

And then they moved onto close quarters combat, and Stiles really wasn't prepared for Chris to grab his wrist and yank him forward while also hooking his leg behind Stiles'. He let out a surprised grunt and then his back was hitting the mat in a controlled fall. 

"Whoa," Stiles breathed. "What the fuck was that?"

Chris chuckled, reaching a hand out to pull Stiles back to his feet. Chris demonstrated on Stiles three more times before he told Stiles to take him down. 

"I can't do that," Stiles huffed. "You're so much bigger than me."

"Most people are, sweetheart," Peter called out, walking towards the ring. "You're skin and bones."

"Jee, thanks," Stiles deadpanned, rolling his eyes. Peter climbed up, leaning against the fence. 

"The more you work out the more muscle you'll get," Chris chuckled. "So, come on. Try to take me down."

Stiles couldnt take him down. Not without a lot of help from Chris at least. The whole move was slow with Chris pausing to adjust Stiles' grip on his wrist or to adjust his stance. It was step by step, and by the time Stiles managed to get a leg behind Chris', he was sweating. 

"Now, just sweep the leg and guide me down," Chris said. Stiles nodded, the two of them pressed against each other until Stiles pulled his leg towards himself. 

Stiles landed on top of Chris with a rush of air when he lost his balance, barely managing to catch himself on his hands and knees. 

"Good," Chris huffed. "Aside from falling."

Stiles climbed off him, taking a couple steps back to give Chris room to stand. 

"Try again."

Three more tries and Stiles was able to take Chris to the ground without pausing for correction or confirmation. He didnt fall after the first time, which he was grateful for. 

His shirt stuck to him uncomfortably, but he refused to take it off. No way would he last in close proximity with Chris if both their shirts were off. 

"Now, take Peter down."

Stiles blinked. "Uh." Chris backed up to the edge of the ring and Peter advanced, looking more than amused at Stiles' deer-in-the-headlights expression. 

"Come on, sweetheart," Peter grinned. "Show me what you got."

Stiles took a breath before nodding. He got in proper stance, watching as Peter pushed his leg back in suit. 

Peter advanced, and Stiles moved to grab his wrist when he saw claws. 

"Whoa!" Stiles yanked back, tripped and landed on his ass. 

"Try again," Chris nodded. Stiles looked at him incredulously. He climbed back to his feet, rubbing at his ass before scowling at Peter. 

"That's no fair," he huffed.

"Your attackers aren't going to go easy on you just because you're human," Peter said, moving back into stance. "You need to be prepared for them to fight dirty."

This time, Stiles was ready. The claws swiped towards him. Stiles ducked back, grabbed his wrist and moved in close. 

He got his leg back, but then Peter dodged it, moving his leg in front of Stiles' and shoving Stiles forward. 

He let out a yelp, pinching his eyes closed and tensing. Peter somehow got Stiles onto his back, pinning his arms to his sides. 

"Holy shit!" Stiles gasped, eyes shooting open. 

"What do you do now?" Peter asked, cocking an eyebrow. Stiles turned his head to Chris, who watched on silently. 

"Die?" Stiles guessed. Both men chuckle. Peter shakes his head before releasing Stiles' arms and climbing to his feet. 

He yanks Stiles to his feet, making Stiles stumble to catch his footing. 

"When you're on your back, you fight dirty," Peter explained. "Kick, bite, claw, gouge. Whatever it takes to get out from under them, then you run."

*-*

While Stiles was showering after getting back, he found quite a few bumps and bruises. Some were around his calf, others at his forearm and shoulder blades. 

His muscles were sore. He washed with aches and winces and he stepped into sweats and a tshirt when he finished. 

"Hungry?" Peter asked when Stiles managed to fall into the couch. "Chris is making pizza."

"I'm starving," Stiles groaned. "I don't think I've ever been so hungry or sore in my life."

"Poor baby," Peter cooed, dog earing his page and setting his book down. 

"Thank you," Stiles huffs. "I'm being forced to exercise against my will. I'm pretty sure theres a law against that."

Peter just rolls his eyes and grabs both of Stiles' ankles. He pulls him across the couch until Stiles' legs are in Peter's lap and his shirt is up into his armpits. 

He grunts, wriggling to get his shirt back down. He gets it most of the way down before Peter grips Stiles' calf, digging dull fingers into his sore muscles. 

"Oh-Oh my God," Stiles moans. Peter chuckles, working at the muscle of his calf with both hands. 

"That feel good?" Peter asked, smirking. He drags the heel of his palm down the side and Stiles nearly faints with how good it feels. 

"Yeah," he groans. 

He continues to groan and ah as Peter works the muscles loose before moving to the other leg. Its incredible. 

It gets better when Chris walks in and holds a plate in front of him with pizza. Stiles grabs it, sitting up a bit. 

"If this is your way of apologizing, I accept," Stiles hums, biting into his slice. 

Chris sits down beside Stiles after handing Peter his plate, and reaches for the remote. 

Because of how Stiles was laying, he ends up leaning against Chris' side, his legs used as a plate holder for Peter. They eat in silence, watching the latest episode of Lucifer. 

*-*

"Why do I have to learn this?" Stiles groaned, head in his hands as he stared at the runes. "I thought druids were Celtic."

"They are," Chris said, stepping up to his side to look at the mess that was Stiles trying to name all the runes. "They use runes though."

"Well that's stupid," Stiles snapped. He'd already got the herbal aspect of druidism down. He could name everything and its purpose in his little magic kit just by looking at it, and was now working on the magic part of his druid training. Which meant learning about runes -he might as well be trying to learn a new language. 

"Why don't we take a break," Peter hummed. Stiles looked up in surprise, then glanced over at Chris. 

"What?"

Peter grinned, leaning his hands on the countertop. "Chris and I were talking. And we'd like to take you on a date."

Stiles blinked again, looking between the two. "A date?" He asked. His voice did not squeak. 

"Yes," Chris said, looking down at him. 

"As in, like, a date? With both of you? Together?" Stiles asked. 

"Preferably," Peter said. 

"Romantically or platonically?"

"Don't be obtuse, Stiles," Peter huffed, straightening up and fixing the sleeves of his white button down. 

"Im not being obtuse," Stiles scowled. "I'm just making sure I'm not reading into this wrong." Because it would be just Stiles' luck to read the situation wrong and make an utter fool of himself. 

Chris chuckled, reaching a hand out to thumb at Stiles' earlobe. "Romantically," he answered. "If you're comfortable with the both of us."

"Okay," Stiles said dumbly. Chris tugged at his ear lightly before nudging Stiles to stand. 

"Go get dressed."

"Where are we going?" Stiles asked, stumbling out of his chair. Both of them were in their fancy pants, Peter had a white button up tucked in and Chris' was black. Stiles wondered why they always wore suits, or nice shirts. 

"Dinner," Peter answered. "Wear your nicest shirt."

Stiles grunted, but made his way back to his room. The nicest shirt he owned was his funeral shirt, which was in the back of the closet of his childhood bedroom back in Independence. He hadn't wanted to bring it. 

Frankie was lounging on his bed, droopy face pressing into his bedding. He looked like he was melting into the mattress, which made Stiles grin at him and poke at the flabby skin of his muzzle. 

The closet didn't have anything close to being nice. At least not to Peter Hale's standard. He had to stop for a moment and take a breath. 

He was going on a dinner date with Peter and Chris. Peter and Chris had talked about Stiles. They both wanted to date Stiles. This didn't happen to Stiles! 

Well, nothing that had happened to Stiles since moving to Beacon Hills had ever happened to him. Everything was a new experience for him, from his apartment being broken into multiple times, to a crazy woman following him, the attempted kidnapping, tangling himself with Hales and Argents. Moving in with Peter Hale!! 

His dad would most definitely have a heart attack if he ever found out about what Stiles had gotten himself into. He'd drive up and pack his shit and drag Stiles back to Independence so fast Stiles would probably get whip lash. 

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He was going on a date. A date with a werewolf mob boss and a werewolf hunter slash left hand. Two of the hottest and most dangerous people Stiles had ever met wanted to go on a date with him!

He snatched up the nicest shirt he could find -a plain white tshirt with blue around the collar and sleeves, and then grabbed a blue flannel. 

He scowled at his jeans. Peter and Chris were wearing dress slacks and button down shirts. Sure, Peter had rolled his white shirt sleeves up to just below his elbows, but he still looked the part of a professional business man. 

Which, Stiles thought, was sort of true. Peter ran a mob business. He suddenly wondered if those stories about human trafficking were true or not. He hoped not. 

Stiles could look past drug smuggling, could even turn a blind eye to the whole murder thing, but he had to draw the line on human trafficking. He didnt think he could stomach it. 

Why Stiles had never asked was beyond him. He grew up too curious for his own good, and any other time Stiles would have been all over that. 

He looked at the door with furrowed eyebrows, then turned his attention to Frankie. He held out his arms, though he didnt know if he was asking the Mastiff if he looked good or if he should stick his nose where he shouldn't. 

Frankie lifted his head, scented the air, sneezed and dropped his head back down. Inconclusive, Stiles sighed, letting his arms drop to his sides. 

He leaned forward and scritched Frankie's ear before stepping into a pair of high-top converse. Phone and wallet were slipped into his back pocket, and then he walked out of his room. 

Peter and Chris were waiting in the living room, both of them grinning a bit. "Come on, sweetheart," Peter smiled, waving him on. Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders rolling forward and head slightly lowered as he walked to them. 

"No need to be bashful now," Peter chuckled. "We're not strangers."

The three of them made their way to the stairs that lead out to the club underneath the apartment, Chris with his hand on Stiles' lower back. 

"I didn't know you guys liked me back, is all," Stiles grumbled. Peter held the door for the other two to step through, though he stopped Stiles from walking through with a hand on his chest. 

Stiles looked down at it, before looking up at Peter. "Self-confidence would look great on you, sweetheart."

Stiles bristled a little, eyebrows furrowing. "I'm confident!" He exclaimed. Peter just patted his chest before shoving him towards the stairs. 

"We'll work on it," Peter promised, shutting the door behind him as the three of them stepped down the stairs. Stiles grumbled under his breath, the thumping music of the club growing louder the closer they got. 

Stiles let Peter press into his back as they maneuvered through the crowd, hands on Stiles' jean-clad hips. One of Stiles' hands were in Chris'.

The music was a bit too loud, and Stiles was glad both men were directing him where to go, because his attention was caught in an old black and white horror movie playing on the concrete wall. 

Once outside, Stiles took a deep breath, the cool afternoon air a refreshing change to the hot and sticky atmosphere of the club. 

"Car's around back," Chris said, nodding for the alley beside their building. He didnt let go of Stiles' hand. Peter took up his other side, hand still on the waistband of his jeans. It felt nice having both men sandwich him as they walked. 

"Where are we going?" Stiles asked. Chris unlocked the dark SUV when they got close. Stiles moved to get into the back seat, but Peter pushed him to the passenger seat. 

"Dinner," Peter responded. Stiles rolled his eyes, buckling up as the other two climbed into the vehicle. 

"Yeah but where?" He demanded. "Like, diner food? Fast food?"

"Its a restaurant," Chris answered. "One of the betas own it."

"Oh." 

The men chuckled as Chris pulled out of the lot, merging into traffic. They drove twenty minutes before Chris pulled into a restaurant. 

Driving twenty minutes in Independence took you from one city limit to the other. 

The restaurant looked fancy, but definitely not suit and tie fancy. Stiles climbed out of the SUV, standing on the sidewalk in front of the building while he waited for Chris and Peter to join him. 

When they did, Chris curled an arm around Stiles' neck, pulling him softly into the older man's side while Peter walked ahead to get the door. 

They found a booth towards the back of the restaurant, and Stiles noticed a lot of eyes on them. He felt his shin crawl, remembering Kate Argent and her goons, who had tried to kidnap him. 

He still didn't know the whole story about the Argent family, but he didnt think a first date was really the place to get into that. 

Stiles blamed his studies for his lack of sleuthing. Peter had him reading books on druids, and when he wasn't reading, he was practicing, and if he wasn't doing that, he was in the gym with Peter and Chris, learning how to defend himself until his supposed druid powers surfaced. 

So far, all Stiles could really do was correctly name herbs and their properties, and make a mountain ash circle. 

Stiles had been a little apprehensive about messing with mountain ash the first time Peter set the bottle in front of him, especially after the last time he touched it. 

He still had the triskelion on his wrist, the ash underneath it moving under his skin like a black cocktail drink with mica powder swirling around. 

Stiles sat down on the bench, sliding to the end. Chris sat down beside him, trapping him to the wall. Peter got the booth opposite them all to himself, and sat right in the middle. 

He took up room, Stiles noticed. Not that he was big, but he owned the space he used. He wasn't afraid to use the full extent of his arms and legs. He sat tall, and even when he slouched to rest his elbows and forearms on the table, he still looked big. 

Stiles was the complete opposite. He sat with his shoulders rolled forward, his knees pressed together and his head slightly ducked forward. He didnt use all the space his body had. 

"Alpha."

All three heads turned to a skinny guy with curly dirty blonde hair and sharp jawline. 

"Hello, Issac," Chris greeted. The man turned his eyes to Chris and smiled softly with one side of his mouth. 

"Hey, Chris," he said. His voice took on a more friendlier tone compared to how he spoke to Peter. He greeted Peter the way you'd greet someone in power, someone you feared and respected. 

He must be Peter's beta. 

"Who's this?"

Stiles' eyes momentarily widened at the attention. He forgot he was even there, too busy picking apart how the beta acted around the two most revered men in the werewolf crime syndicate. 

"Stiles," Stiles said, lifting a couple fingers in a very awkward wave. Issac blinked at him, as if waiting for Stiles to spill the beans on every aspect of himself. He fidgeted a little at that, then turned to Peter for help. 

"He's a druid-in-training," he informed the beta. "He'll be staying with us for the foreseeable future."

Issac's eyes landed on Stiles again, and Stiles couldn't help but feel like the guy was trying to figure out if Stiles was being held against his will or not. He didnt look like he cared either way, but curiosity shown in his blue eyes. 

"We're ready to oder," Chris said, pushing the conversation along. Issac tore his eyes from Stiles to Chris, slapped on a smile and tugged out the pad and pen he had shoved in his back pocket. 

"The regular?" He asked. 

"For all three of us," Peter nodded. Stiles had no idea what the regular was, so he kept his mouth shut. Issac write that down and then nodded before leaving. Stiles watched him go with a furrowed brow. 

"Whats 'the regular'?" Stiles asked, glancing at Chris. He would answer him, Peter wouldn't. 

"Its good," Chris said, smirking over at Stiles. 

"Why'd you make it sound like I was some involuntary friend of the mafia?" He asked Peter, who grinned at him. 

"Because you are," Peter said. Stiles' mouth opened on an indignant scoff. He leaned forward, dropping his elbows on the table and pointing a finger at the werewolf. 

"I can leave any time I want to," he said. Peter just smirked, and Stiles already knew he'd been beat even before Peter grabbed his hand and turned his arm to show his wrist. 

"Shut up," he snapped, yanking his hand away before Peter could say anything. "That wouldn't keep me here. I'm staying of my own free will."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have let you leave if you did choose to," he said. "You're mine, and I keep my things close."

Stiles didnt like being objectified. He hated when someone thought they could possess him in any way, control him. But Peter's words made Stiles blush, even with the underhanded threat, and he dropped his gaze to the table top. 

"So tell me, little druid," Peter hummed, still grinning at Stiles' expense. Stiles glanced up at him. "What turned you on to Chris and I?"

Stiles blinked. He wasn't expecting that question, though it didnt surprise him that Peter asked. He saw Chris glance at him out of the corner of his eye and fought the urge to fidget. 

"I-I mean, you're both really hot," he blurted. Chris grinned, the smile-lines near his eyes deepening. Stiles wanted to slam his head on the table, it was so attractive. 

"Thank you, sweetheart," Peter smirked, and God, Stiles wondered if he could get away with just banging his head on the wall beside him. 

Chris set his wrist on Stiles' shoulder, fingers playing with his earlobe. Stiles shivered. 

Issac came back with three glasses -they were actual glass! Not that plastic that looked like glass- full of water. Each one had a quarter slice of a lime on the rim. 

"Thank you, Issac," Peter hummed. Stiles noticed how Issac lit up momentarily, but he quickly schooled his features and nodded before letting them know it was ten minutes before their food was ready. 

Stiles still had no clue what he was going to be eating, but he hoped it wasnt too fancy, he wasnt good with fancy. Fancy broke around Stiles. 

The three of them continued to talk, with Chris still lazily petting the side of Stiles' neck, his jaw and the shell of his ear. It felt nice, having someone pay attention to his skin like that. 

Stiles was surprised when Issac came back with three plates of chicken alfredo with a cesar salad side. 

"Huh," Stiles huffed, looking down at his plate. 

"Dont like it?" Chris asked. 

"No," Stiles said, glancing up at the two of them. "I mean, yeah, I like it, I just didn't expect you guys to eat this regularly."

"What did you expect us to eat then, little druid?" Peter smirked, amused on his side of the table. 

"Steak and potatoes, or venison," Stiles shrugged, twisting his fork in the creamy noodles on his plate. 

"Thats a little specist, isn't it?" Peter asked, though based on the smirk playing on his lips, Stiles knew he wasn't offended, so he shrugged again and shoved a fork full of noodles into his mouth. 

Dinner was nice. A lot nicer than Stiles thought it would be. He had this image in his head of The Godfather, where Peter sits across from Stiles and Chris on his makeshift throne, while his mafia followers cower in his presence and respond to him with 'yes, boss' and 'please, I'll pay you back I promise'. 

One thing he expected and noticed happen, was the people in the restaurant glancing at them, whispering in low tones and even getting up and leaving. 

Stiles knew Peter could hear what they were saying, the conclusions they were coming to and sharing with friends. But his attention was solely placed on Chris and Stiles. 

And the strange thing was, Stiles didnt feel like a third wheel, or an add-on. He hadn't felt that way in a while, he realized, halfway through their dinner. 

It made him smile down at his half empty plate. Issac stopped by twice, refilling their drinks and making sure they were okay, and when it was time for them to go, Peter went to pay, and Chris dropped a forty on the table. 

"Big tipper," Stiles hummed. Chris just shrugged before heading for the front door. Stiles followed close behind, not really brave enough to initiate contact by grabbing his hand. 

"Issac is in college, he needs the money," Chris said, holding the door open for Stiles. 

"I forgot I have college in the fall," Stiles realized, coming to a stop on the sidewalk. He scowled. So much had happened, he forgot all about it. 

"To be a vet, right?" Chris asked, standing beside him while they waited for Peter. Stiles nodded, running a hand through his hair and huffing. 

"Doesn't really seem like something I should do now," he confessed, glancing over at Chris as he scuffed the toe of his converse against the concrete. 

Before either of them could finish that line of conversation, Peter steps out and the three of them climb into the car. This time, it's Peter who drives and Chris is in the back seat. 

Stiles feels a blush dusting his cheeks when Peter's hand moves to rest on his thigh. He can feel Chris' hand on his shoulder, arm fitting between the head rest and the window. His finger is brushing against the hair behind Stiles' ear. 

Its close to nine when they get back to Sinema, and it's packed. Stiles has to hold onto both men as they weave through the crowd so he doesn't lose them. Chris interlocks their fingers behind him, and Peter turns his head to smirk at Stiles, squeezing his hand. 

They make it to the hallway -the place they met for the first time- then climb the stairs, the noise growing muffled the higher they go. Stiles wonders if the floors are soundproofed. It'd make sense. Even without superhuman hearing, Stiles assumes he'd be able to hear the music playing downstairs. 

The door is shut behind them, and all traces of a club below them is gone. Frankie stomps his way over, tail wagging and mouth open. 

Stiles grins when Peter runs a hand over his back as the dog passes by. Peter and Chris actually liked Frankie, and some days -when the three of them go on a shorter run in the mornings- they take him with them. It's never Stiles' idea, which makes him grin when the werewolf mob boss or his hunter left hand suggest taking the mastiff with them. 

Frankie -after smell checking the three of them- saunters to the large couch, jumping up before settling like silly putty into the dark cushions. 

"Thanks," Stiles said, looking to his right, then left at the two older men. "For dinner. It was nice."  
"You're welcome," Chris smiled. "Thank you for accepting."

"Like I'd say no," Stiles snorted, then pressed his lips into a hard line when he realized he'd said that out loud. He drops his head and sighs while the men laugh. 

"How about a movie," Peter suggested. Stiles nodded, wanting nothing more than to forget his little slip up. He's about to make his way to the couch when Peter grabs his chin with one hand, turning Stiles to face him. 

Stiles' eyes widen, and then Peter's lips are pressing against his, and Stiles' hands move on their own to hover between their shoulders. 

Its a simple kiss, and not one he expects from Peter. Its chaste and sweet, not at all dominating as he assumed kissing Peter would be. 

When he pulls away, he smirks proudly and Stiles licks his lips, hands still in the air. Then Chris is spinning him around and planting a kiss on Stiles' mouth too, and Stiles thinks he might be short circuiting. 

Chris' kiss is just as still, though he sucks on Stiles' lower lip before pulling away. Stiles stares at the two of them as they make their way to the sofa, sitting down next to each other. 

Peter reaches forward and flicks on the TV with the remote on the ottoman. "Are you just going to stand there, sweetheart, or do you want to join us?"

That gets Stiles moving again. He heel-toes his shoes off, nearly falling over in his hurry. The two smirk at him in amusement as Stiles rushes to the couch, plopping himself down in the middle. 

Both of their arms instantly circle him, and Stiles forgets all about the questions he wanted to ask the two of them all evening. They watch an old James Bond movie, and Stiles can't help but snuggle further into Peter and Chris' arms, sighing in contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was going to have this book only have 3 chapters, because I pack a lot into them, but this chapter got away from me, and now I think I might bump it up to 4 chapters instead! 
> 
> We shall see. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I got lots of good comments on the first installment and it made me so happy to read your comments! 
> 
> This chapter is about 7,000 words shorter than the first one, but I wanted to post this one since its been three weeks since I uploaded chapter 1. Hope that's okay with you guys!
> 
> Also, I'm already working on chapter three! I don't know when it will be done but I promise it will be! 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think of chapter 2 and remember the more comments on your theories and how you feel brightens my day and I love it all!!


End file.
